Of Crowns and Crows
by WanderingSoprano
Summary: Sherlock never anticipated falling in love. But there she was, maestro to every inhibition he had avoided for years. The curtains rise, the musicians play, and hearts turn. But when the murders begin, and the truth outs, nothing will ever be the same again. Rated for safety. Sherlolly.
1. Auld Lang Syne

**Hello! Welcome to this new story! This story has been riding in my mind for months, and I am thrilled to finally get it published. It's going to be a rollercoaster! **

**We commence just as Sherlock is released back to Baker Street after being pardoned for shooting Magnussen post Season 3. ****Please note that this story is taking the canon timeline with a pinch of salt, to function this plot instead of simply reenacting the wonderful show.**

**Disclaimer: All that is canon belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, the BBC and all who carry the copyright of BBC Sherlock.**

**Off we go...**

* * *

_"The future enters into us, in order to transform itself in us, long before it happens." ~ Rainer Rilke_

**December 31st**

_Moonlight transcended dust in between mountains. Stories of millennia whispered across nomadic carvings, calling to spirits whose names were lost to stars. The cold bit our limbs, yet our proximity expelled warmth. A pure face offered a wholesome smile. A strange, unbidden sensation tingled in a hollow chest. A yak grunted. Our hearts stopped. Then, silence. The dust remained still. We smiled. The only danger in the wilderness was the East wind. And the East wind had not yet stirred._

Pointless.

Sherlock Holmes scowled.

London swarmed passed him like light from an endless stream of candles. He sank further into the worn taxi seat.

"Miss Me?" had sent the English into melodramatic oblivion.

_It was obvious,_ Sherlock knew, _Moriarty was dead._

Whatever stunt had called him back to England had been something new, something _interesting. _But not, however, the ghost of Moriarty.

The Secret Service had spent enough time with the criminal's corpse for him to be sure.

However, Scotland Yard hadn't prevailed in the _what's obvious _department.

After being released from his impending death sentence from the Secret Services, Sherlock Holmes had sought Scotland Yard immediately. He needed a case. Something to realign his wits now his life was set to continue.

There, he'd been subject to an onslaught of discombobulated detectives demanding information about Moriaty's resurrection.

_Pathetic. _

The hype was too attractive of a concept. It had taken twelve attempts of annoying Donovan, and three jibes at Lestrade for them to cave and let him go. They were hungry for the tantalising exhibition of Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes to be on display, and Sherlock wasn't intending to divulge.

_Let them scramble over this celebrity case. They won't get the answers they're looking for._

"Here you are sir, 222 Baker Street as requested."

Sherlock's scowl thickened, "221", he corrected, thrusting cash over. He climbed out of the car and took three steps towards his home.

A smile tugged on his tight expression.

_Home. _

Sleet tumbled on worn tarmac. A crow cawed from the edge of a gutter. People chattered as they passed, sirens cooed, and the evening traffic hummed. It was music. His music. And he was home-

_Flash!_

"Sherlock 'Olmes, what do you have to say about Moriarty being back in the picture-"

The tight expression was back in an instant, and Sherlock headed inside. A demand for tea from Mrs Hudson announced itself from his lips as he entered the threshold.

It was a luxury he'd never expected to experience again.

Smartly, he ascended the stairs.

As Sherlock stood arrived at the doorway to his home, voices echoed. John's wonder at his deductions, Mrs Hudson's scolding over chemical stains, Moriarty's knife slicing into an apple as his _heart raced._

221B Baker Street had always been a dwelling of activity.

This flat had withstood Sherlock's history as a fortress to a king. Life was bold, colourful, and dramatic. The detective stood, master of the kingdom, the beholder of mysteries and songs that rivalled many a man-

Yet, now it was quiet. The fire was unlit. The shadows pooled, long and dark.

Baker Street was the casket for the life he'd almost left behind on behalf of a vow. Within six months the skull on the mantlepiece, the manuscript on the desk, and the needles hidden under the floorboards were to become mementoes of the Kingdom of the lost king.

It would descend into a solemn memory, as his bones turned to dust.

_Blisters turned to callouses. We stalked through the wilderness, on the path of liberation at the ends of the earth- _

_No._

Sherlock took a steady breath. It was imperative to focus, he reminded himself. The ghost of Moriarty was at play and pointless sentiments were not of any relevance. Memories and associations _and tragedies were_\- _No. Focus. _Perhaps he could contact John. The army doctor would provide an amiable distraction to his internal cacophony. That would be more suitable than narcotics, his recent remedy of choice.

_Seeing John is not possible, not now. _

John had gone home to Mary and their unborn child. That was John's home now. Not Baker Street. Though Sherlock knew John would drop everything if aware that temptation to sink into the drug-fuelled abyss was stirring, a scarcely heard voice of _emotional reason _chided him.

_John witnessed you kill a man. Let him be with his family. _

His life was to continue in solitude from now on.

Sherlock removed his coat and threw it onto John's chair, then shook blots of rainfall from his damp curls. Swiftly, he flicked a lamp on.

_Focus._

With purpose, Sherlock stalked over to his desk and ripped some paper. He grabbed a pen and wrote out two large bold words. The words had to have an answer, even if they were buried under multitudes of threads of a spider's web. Grabbing a pin, he climbed onto his settee and secured it onto his wall.

_MISS ME? _

His blue eyes narrowed, his lips twitched. His mind started to focus, like an artist applying the first paint stroke onto canvas.

"Sherlock?"

A small voice broke him out of focus. His lips compressed into a line. "Yes, Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh, Sherlock, you've been stood like that for an age- sit down at least-"

He spun to see her in the doorway, her concerned face aggravated him. "What do you want?"

"I bought you tea. You asked for tea-"

"Did I?"

"You did. Now, sit. Standing for so long can't do you any good."

An unspoken debate occurred in the space of a glance, but he relented, hopping down to the floor. Mrs Hudson placed the tea down in front of him and sat on John's chair. He joined her on his own.

Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the soft cotton of her skirt.

Sherlock braced himself. He knew what was coming.

"I know I'm not your mother, Sherlock, but-"

"Mrs Hudson-"

"I can see this isn't easy for you. No- don't look at me like that- _Listen._ You've been shot, you were almost sent away. You're still recovering from your _stupid_ plan against Magnussen." She hesitated, "John told me about your _little relapse_. I don't think being alone is good for you right now. Is there _anyone _you can call?"

Sherlock plastered a bitter smile on his face, "I'm not alone. You're here. Very_, definitely_, here."

"This isn't about me," She persisted, wise eyes bearing into him seriously, "I know you're an independent adult capable of managing your own decisions-"

Sherlock sneered. She didn't sound convinced.

"But you're also an _idiot_\- And you need a friend. I'm going to Margaret's tonight for New Years, and John's on baby watch… So, Greg maybe? Even Molly- she doesn't have a lot of friends, does she? Just for tonight. You shouldn't be alone."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised, and he sat back. As ridiculous as Mrs Hudson's accusations about his wellbeing were, he could afford to pull Molly's brain about this case. She knew Moriarty better than most, and most importantly, he could trust her.

_And I need to apologise, _he thought. Nothing like a case to clear the air.

He smiled at Mrs Hudson, and saw her inquisitive gaze lighten. "Actually, that's a splendid idea. I'll call Molly."

That did the trick. She smiled and rose to leave. "…Good. I'll make sure to let her in for you before I leave." Her hands clasped together, "Sherlock, I'm so happy your home. How would have I managed without you tormenting me for six months? Ha!"

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock called, ignoring the tremor _six months s_tirred in his soul. "Thank you for the tea". He pulled the cup to his lips, and serenely took a sip.

It was a lighthouse upon stormy seas.

She managed a bashful smile in his direction, before heading downstairs. The familiar patter of her steps turned the corner of his lips upwards.

Sherlock brought out his mobile.

And paused.

_Molly Hooper. _

Quiet but strong. Shy in a social situation, a whirlwind of energy under pressure. He'd known her over a decade, and he couldn't recall a time she'd let him down. _Not properly, _at least. Not in the same way he had her. Sherlock Holmes viewed them as the perfect toxic friendship. She would always support him, forgive him, care for him, despite him breaking her heart time and time again.

He didn't care, at least he liked to think he didn't. But he respected her. He trusted her with his life. Years of her undying affection had turned this feeling out of him, of absolute trust. And it was distracting. Ever since he had returned to London after dismantling Moriarty's network, he'd felt this terrible need to keep her happy; Forcing him to keep his nose out of her engagement despite knowing it was doomed to fail, seeing her occasionally for simple leisure, and making sure she knew she counted. Their friendship had grown tenfold, and he hadn't fought it.

Though he'd never admit it, she was the crux he'd relied upon reassimilating to life as Sherlock Holmes.

_Emerging from the dust into the concrete. _

He was guilty. And _guilt _was an abhorrent notion for Sherlock Holmes. Taking drugs to scope Magnussen out had been easy. It was a simple decision to make. He only hesitated when he thought of how she'd react. His instinct had been right. She slapped him, and he'd felt _horrible._

Time had passed, sure. They had gotten past it, sure. But when she was unhappy, he swore he could _feel _her hand burning on his cheek.

It was something about Molly Hooper. Something he found repugnant. She made him _think _about other human's feelings.

…It was time to apologise to her.

Did she know he'd relapsed when facing exile? His synapses chided him for the mere suggestion of _fretting _over that. Who could judge him? If he was entering oblivion, who cared if his faculties were in order? He was revived now, and despite the lingering fevers, he was better. He was sharp, collected, and more importantly, home.

With confidence, he started to type.

**Baker Street. You're required.**

**SH **

He thought for a moment.

**I'm back in London for good.**

**SH **

Six minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, his phone buzzed.

**I'm on my way.**

**Molly**

* * *

**The Old Blue Last, Shoreditch, London.**

A beam of light exploded through smoke.

A crowd cheered.

Beer was hoisted into the air, vodka spilled over the rims of plastic cups.

Throughout history, the soul of London had been deemed by men in fur coats. By those who raised their fists and crowns, chanting war cries and treaties of peace.

Those men understood only a sliver of London's heart.

History had lied. London was owned by the ordinary. By those who stumbled through Green Park in yesterday's clothes as the sun raised. By those who fell in love in the dark corners of Waterloo station. By those whose new years jubilations sang louder than the majestic chimes of Big Ben itself.

Drums pounded, guitars screeched, the crowds jumped. Up and down, up and down-

Bass bellowed, thrusting the people of London towards the new year.

The club was shrouded in thick air, mixing with alcohol, sweat, and joy. Bartenders shouted over the rambunctious. The disorderly shouted back, demanding more drinks to send their inhibitions into madness.

Men who'd worn suits now flung their loose ties into the air, women hoisted their dresses higher, losing themselves in a foray of lights.

With shouts, bangs, and the repetitive clashes of cymbals, the song ended. Applause, which sounded like a battle cry, ripped through the air.

"Shoreditch!" The band's front-liner yelled, brandishing an electric guitar of blazing blue against his chest, "Are you ready to charge into the new year?"

The crowd cheered.

"Alright, you bastards. Go and have a good year on me. 'Cause you know what?" An affectionate smile emerged through stage lit eyes, "From me and the lads at Three Crows, you bloody deserve it!"

Whooping pierced the air.

The frontliner, a young man with dirty blonde hair and tattooed arms grinned towards the audience, then to his bandmates. Suddenly he frowned, "Where's Luke?" He asked into the microphone.

"Probably copping off with some lass, Jake." Quipped the drummer.

The crowd laughed, several wolf-whistled.

Through the raucous, a young adult with a buzz-cut dashed on from the wings flashing an apologetic smile as the crowed jeered.

"Sorry, needed some water, didn't I?"

The frontliner rolled his eyes as Luke hurriedly fastened the strap of his bass over his shoulder.

"Right," Jake grinned, turning to the audience, "Now that Lukey-boy's hydrated, let's get back on track! One, two, three, four…!"

* * *

Molly Hooper steeled herself. _I shouldn't go, _she thought, _Sherlock isn't my problem anymore. _Yet she found herself grabbing her coat, keys, and phone and heading out of her flat.

_How could he not tell me he was being sent away?_

Molly pulled her scarf around her neck tightly as she walked against the sleet, glittering from streetlamps refractions above. Hurt bit her cheeks more bitterly than the cold.

Ever since Sherlock had come back from the dead, their friendship had blossomed. And she loved it. Occasionally, they'd solve crimes together. But more often, he'd just come by and see her. He had started asking her menial questions about her day, and it stunned her that he could even be bothered about it.

Their friendship had been a long and complex one. It had persevered through fake deaths, drugs, homicides and _awful _attempts at flirting. He said she mattered most. So why didn't he think to turn faced with leaving for six months? She could have talked him out of relapsing.

The news of_ that_ had been more upsetting than his upcoming mission. She had heard it from Mary over the phone. Molly didn't understand why he'd been sent away, but it had been reason enough for him to risk his own life by narcotic consumption. It broke her heart that a soul as magnificent as his had become so tormented.

Despite her anger, she had to be there for him tonight.

If she triggered another downward spiral, she would never forgive herself.

Molly forced herself to relax her tense shoulders. She had barely taken in her journey to Baker Street, and now she was there. She paused at the familiar black door, and her eyes glanced over the street. She spotted four- no, five, of Mycroft's security detail scattered around. _Best to be safe than sorry_.

After a fuss from Mrs Hudson, she found herself making her way up the same steps to his flat. Her heart thudded in her chest.

_Breathe, Molly. _She knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Sat upon his usual chair by the fireplace, was Sherlock Holmes; Eyes closed, with elegant hands poised under his chin. His expression was contrite as a Greek philosopher carved into marble.

"Sherlock-"

"Give me a moment. Thinking."

She frowned, but this wasn't unusual. Molly removed her scarf, coat, and shoes, and went to sit on John's chair, idly rubbing her arms to warm up. Her brown eyes scanned the room inquisitively, eventually falling on _Miss Me _pinned on the wall.

Her stomach twisted.

An undetermined amount of time passed before blue orbs flicked open. Immediately, they acquiesced her with cutting scrutiny."Hello Molly"

"Hi."

"Happy belated Christmas."

She smirked at his poor attempt at festivities, "Happy belated Christmas, Sherlock"

"Did Father Christmas bring you any corpses this year?" His eyes were bright, his lips brought up in a snide grin.

Shyly, she returned it. "Yes, a whole sack full, you'll be interested to know. And another four in the sleigh… and one in the chimney."

There was a brief silence.

Then, they both snickered.

Molly straightened up. She shook herself. _Remember why you came. _"I need to talk to you."

Sherlock looked and made a collection of conclusions in the space of three seconds. Coolly, he stood up and faced her. "You don't need to explain- I understand- and I'm sorry".

Molly stiffened, taken aback.

"I mean it before you tell me that I don't." Sherlock omitted dismissively. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was leaving. Under the circumstances, I couldn't. Does that cover it?"

"Not if I don't get an explanation."

Sherlock sighed and stared at her plainly. The _Molly _guilt was ebbing away at him. His cheek felt warm. _Total honesty._ Molly deserved his total honesty.

"Molly, I killed Charles Magnussen. I murdered a man."

Molly's heart dropped through the floorboards into London's sodden earth.

Sherlock analysed her, deductions springing from her, fleeting but toxic- _hurt shock sympathy terror love hatred anger confusion- _

"Chinese?" Sherlock's voice rang, unnaturally quick.

Molly stared.

"Don't tell me what you want, I know your order. Give me two minutes-" He pulled out his phone.

"Hang on. No, Sherlock, what?" Molly stumbled to her feet, "You what?"

"I killed Magnussen. Shot him. Do you want prawn crackers?"

Her small hand flailed and grasped the head of John's chair, an unmistakable tremble coursing through her arm.

A million sentiments continued to spring off her, each sharper and more frantic than the last. Sherlock's cheek clenched. It was poison. Poison spreading through his veins like an intravenous drug.

Sherlock imagined all the things she would say. He imagined her crying. He imagined a much harder slap to his face. He saw-

"Are you okay?"

"What?"

Molly inhaled shakily, her brown eyes betraying a plethora of anxiety, "Are you okay?"

The detective hadn't expected that.

"Answer me." Her voice raised. _Urgent. Scared._

"Of course, I am."

Her gaze hardened. She didn't believe him.

"…Was he trying to kill you?"

"No."

"_Why_ did you kill him, Sherlock?" She took a small step closer. Her brown eyes were hesitant but gilded in strength.

Sherlock couldn't believe she wasn't angry. Deductions vanished into abandon. _Into mud huts with dirt floors- Not now. Focus._

"You wouldn't have done it in cold blood… You wouldn't have."

"He threatened Mary. He was going to expose her history. Knowledge of her past in the wrong hands is a death sentence to her. I did what I had to. For John, Mary, and their unborn child. It was the right course of action. There was no alternative."

There was a finality in his eyes that turned Molly's nerves into ash. Sherlock would go into oblivion for the Watson's. He didn't regret killing Magnussen. He r_efused _to.

He was the most painfully loyal human being she'd ever met.

Molly raised her head as confidently as she could muster. "Thank you for protecting Mary."

Once again, Sherlock was stumped. _Thank you, _she said. His blue eyes narrowed, investigating the ever-complicated woman in front of him. She was horrified, but she was brave enough to understand.

"The British government have altered the story, I'm not liable in any way. However, they did exile me. I lasted ten minutes before Jim Moriarty decided to play a ghost act." He smirked.

Her stomach dropped through the soil into the earth's crust. "…Is that why you didn't say goodbye?"

"I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone. It was a case of national security. John only knew because he was a witness, and Mary was directly involved."

"I understand" Molly started, voice small. She made her way back to John's chair. "As long as you're okay-"

"I am."

"You _relapsed_-"

"A momentary lapse of judgment. I assure you, my neural capabilities are restored."

"Sherlock-"

"It is a matter _not_ worth discussion."

Silence eclipsed the room.

His eyes flashed with warning, hers flashed with hurt.

Sherlock analysed her as the heat in his chest dissipated, observing the tiredness under her eyes, her weight, every single fibre of her clothes. Molly wasn't looking at him now; She was cold, tense, and her hair still damp from the rain. Absently, her index finger traced the ring finger knuckle of the other. Where, not long before, an engagement ring had shone.

Without word, he dropped to his knees and made work of setting the fire alight. _Give her a moment to process your actions_. Simply, he procured firewood from a basket. With cutting scrutiny, he examined each piece, deducing which ones would produce the warmest, longest flames. For a man not versed in domestication, his skills in maintaining flames were meticulous. A few minutes later, 221B was doused in an orange glow. He held his breath and resumed position opposite Molly Hooper.

Molly was observing him now, her face flushed in shock. The orange hues warmed the edges of her dark irises; a metaphor for the strength within her reserved character, he considered, then dismissed the notion.

"How's your wound healing up?" Molly ventured quietly, "From being shot- I mean."

"Quite well. I don't feel it anymore." His hands wound together on his lap, "Another scar to add to the collection, that's all"

The pathologist's brows creased as if she was going to say something.

He quizzed her with an eyebrow, speaking before she could. "You're not bothered about the Moriarty message. I assumed you'd be terrified."

Molly, at last, managed a small smile, grateful for the change in conversation. "Mycroft called me to let me know the threat was minimal, despite what the papers are saying. Regardless, he has security stationed around me… Just in case."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Mycroft called _you?" _

"Yes, well, I helped you fake your death- If Moriarty _was_ alive and knew then-"

"Of course."

"Do you want me to help you figure it out? What the message _actually _represents?"

Sherlock felt the swelling of mystery lift from the floor and enter the air. "Yes. As you said, you helped me fake my death. I trust you to help me make sure he doesn't rise from the dead." He waved his hands dramatically, "He isn't me, after all-"

"Get your head out of your arse, Sherlock... And yes, we can have prawn crackers."

And just like that, the game was on.

* * *

**The Old Blue Last, Shoreditch, London.**

Three Crows serenaded London through the night. Sweat shone on their skin. As the new year drew closer, they sang, strummed, and drummed for delirious eyes that begged for more.

They sang of a woman who turned a man's home and emotions into rampant desire with revelations during a storm. The home became a trap for the man under her spell. But why did the trap matter, when they sang a s_ha la la!_

"Sha la la!" The crowd echoed, arms thrown wildly into the air.

The song ended in a collision of sound, celebrations ripe.

The frontman, Jake, lifted the microphone from the stand. "Right on time, lads! One minute to new year! Grab your guys and gals, let's show the world we've got!"

With the punctuation of a drumbeat on every second, the crowd shouted the countdown. Energy somersaulted in a foray of alcohol ridden smiles.

_Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen…_

Jake turned to the bassist, Luke. He shot a sideways grin.

_Seven, six, five… _

With a small sway, Luke lifted the bass over his shoulders and came to his side.

_Four, three, two… _

He stopped smiling.

Where the instrument had been, now stood blood, blossoming through a white t-shirt bearing a crow.

_One!_

The crowd roared.

Cymbals crashed.

Couples and strangers alike kissed.

Pre-empted choruses of _Auld Lang Syne_ began in vigour.

Luke doubled over, convulsing.

His stumbled into his microphone. A screech of sound disturbance pierced the air.

He collapsed.

Jake threw his guitar over his shoulders, dropping to his knees. The drummer leapt from his seat, drums crashing to the ground. Security chased onto the stage.

The audience stopped celebrating.

For the first time in hours, all was quiet.

"No, no, no-"

Jake cradled Luke in his arms, and a guttural scream ripped from his throat when he stopped moving.

* * *

Hours later, there they were, the Detective and the Pathologist.

Case files, news articles, chemical flasks, takeaway boxes, pins and string spun around 221B Baker Street. This was how Molly worked; she was a visual learner, and needed everything out in front of her, like an open corpse.

This corpse in question was the 'dead' story of Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty. Sherlock copied the displays into his mind palace with vigour.

There wasn't a surface untouched by evidence. A photo of Moriarty was stuck on the wall with a knife in the head representing the entry of the gunshot wound, kindly demonstrated by Sherlock. Strings attached the photograph to the MISS ME page which then led to newspapers, then to the police files, then to the socks Sherlock wore the day of the fall, to photos of Mycroft and John to the assassin's information to more case files, open laptops, newspapers and back again to stabbed Moriarty.

And in the middle of this, sat the Detective and the Pathologist laughing… Playing Chess.

"I can hear you thinking, Doctor Hooper. I didn't realise Chess required _such _brainwork."

Molly glared, "Don't distract me, Sherlock." She swept her Castle four spaces forwards.

Sherlock chuckled, leaning over his crossed legs, "I predicted you'd make this move. Given the fact your Queen lays protected over there, you'd rather offend the left of the board. That and the speed you finished those prawn crackers-" He smirked at the dark look she threw him, "-Bad move, Hooper."

A Bishop slid across the board, taking one of her Knights.

He grinned smugly.

Molly's brows raised at his pride and accepted the challenge. He watched her stalking prey on the chequered board and found he couldn't stop.

"Bad luck, Holmes." With elegance, she slid the same Castle five spaces horizontally.

Molly stopped, appreciated her work, and as her eyes raised his whole body stiffened in shock the moment it dawned that-

"Check Mate."

"What, no- you haven't-"

"'Fraid so." Molly announced, and then laughed at his dumbfounded face, "Look at you, the man who's taken down terrorists and criminal rings, stumped at being beaten at Chess." She feigned an innocent pout, "Are you losing your touch?"

Sherlock blinked, expostulating. "How did you do that-"

Rubbing her hands together, her sincere smile turned teasing. "What a way to see in the new year… Losing at chess."

"I shall make it my resolution to defeat you on the board, Doctor Hooper."

He stood, and offered his hand. Molly took it without thought, then sat on the arm of John's chair, biting back a laugh. "_You _do New Years resolutions?"

"Lord, no. Don't you recognise sarcasm?"

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Sherlock."

"So is _bragging, _I have been told."

The consulting detective pouted as Molly giggled. With a huff, he threw himself onto his settee, ignoring the various evidence he laid on, and crossed his arms behind his head.

Molly tapped her hands against her trousers, glancing up at him. She'd seen him laid out like this before. Yet she hated it. She hated the way she blushed after all these years. His cheekbones were carved under the glow of the fireplace, his hair tousled across his forehead. The epitome of elegance surrounded by chaos.

A work of art.

"So," She began, clearing her throat, "You don't find any significance in the New Year?"

"Of course not. The concept of a New Year is entirely a manmade construct. Different cultures celebrate New Year on different dates. Even Britain has celebrated New Year on several different dates throughout history. There is simply no purpose in celebrating another pointless orbit around the moon-"

"Sorry?"

"Did you mishear me?"

The pathologist wrinkled her nose. "The moon? …Don't you mean the sun?"

Sherlock's brow drew together. "The sun?"

"Yes."

"The earth orbits the sun?"

"…_Yes." _

"Ah," He shrugged. Then, a frown appeared, his head twisting to look at her, _"Really?"_

"Do you really not know that?"

He waved a dismissive palm. "Deleted it."

Molly bit her lip, one hand drawing some hair behind her ear. "There are good things that come with the new year, you know. Markers of life events, anniversaries… A new year opens the promise to so much. A lot can happen in a year."

"There are many anniversaries I'd rather not relive." Sherlock stated flatly.

_Emerald eyes, pleading, tears, yelling, footsteps leading further away, a door slamming- _

Molly felt as if she was staring at a novel, hundreds of pages thick and old. A thousand thoughts, colours, and emotions lay within the pages, yet they remained unread.

"Sherlock, are you s_ure _you're okay?"

"Why do you prolong inquiry into my emotional state?" He snapped.

Molly's heart jammed. Despite his attempt at formality, of friendship, she could see he was scarred. He needed her companionship, and it was her duty not to let it unravel into an argument because she pressed too far.

Quiet drew out for a few minutes, a draft cooling the edges of her skin. Molly observed her counterpart. What would befall him this next year? Would his recent relapse knock-on into coming months? Would baby Watson ground him, or break him? Would shooting Magnussen start a downward spiral? Or would he achieve great things? In a year's time, would she still be here? Did she want that?

Beyond the crackle of firewood, soft bangs sounded beyond the frosty glass. A flash of light red danced upon her skin, followed by green, then orange. Captivated, Molly looked and saw fireworks leaping from nearby buildings. Dancing refractions calling for the year to come. A small smile played on her lips. Without thinking, she drew to her feet and approached the glass, a soft countenance gracing her features.

"I love fireworks," Molly spoke quietly, "Dad used to take me to see them, every year without fail."

The material of the settee creaked as Sherlock eased upright. Without a word, he raised upright and approached the window. He stood behind her, lingering inches away. Molly bit her lip and tilted her head to look at him. The detective was observing the fireworks, his sharp eyes softened under the rainbow. He appeared subdued somehow, lost in a memory. Molly rationalised he didn't notice his proximity.

_Blue, pink, yellow-_

"I'll confess this to you, Doctor Hooper. I _loved _fireworks as a child."

Molly saw the rainbows dancing of his cheekbones, in the irises of his eyes. He's so beautiful, she thought, and he doesn't even comprehend it.

"Fireworks are a simple concept. The combustion of potassium nitrate, charcoal and sulphur with metal triggers activation energy causing light combustion. It's entirely easy to recreate. I could make one in this flat right now with what I have in the kitchen-"

"Please don't." Molly joked.

His eyes flicked downwards. Molly smiled shyly, and one corner of his mouth tilted upright.

They looked out to London.

"Sherlock what time is it?"

He hummed and pulled out his phone, "12:16am."

"Wow," She smiled, "Happy New Year, Sherlock Holmes."

The corner of his mouth upturned, "Happy New Year, Molly Hooper."

Purple then turquoise exploded against the black, reflecting in their eyes.

_Buzz, buzz, buzz-_

Simultaneously, they stirred. The detective scowled in annoyance but didn't ignore the call. John had threatened his manhood if he missed the call of baby Watson's impending arrival. _Tedious sentiment, _he thought, _the infant's neurological processes won't have altered much in the first few hours of life. Why does it matter if I entertain their entrance into existence or not? _

He retrieved his phone. Molly turned, interest piqued.

It was Lestrade.

_Oh. _This was _far _more interesting.

Immediately, he answered. "Lestrade."

'_Hi Sherlock. Listen, there's been a murder; young lad, twenty-four, bassist of some Indie band. They're claiming he's been murdered by his instrument-"_

Sherlock stilled, adrenaline shooting into his veins, "For clarification, the weapon was-"

'_His instrument… We're stumped, Sherlock. Seeing as you're not on that six-month mission anymore, I figured you'd like to bring in the New Year with a murder. Consider it an-"_

"Text me the details. I'm on my way."

He clicked off the phone and stood still. Information shot through his synapses, a rush of sweet exhilaration he'd never thought to have again. The colours turned, the tables were prepared. A feast of mystery was laid before him, and he was _starved._

Eyes that had stared into nothingness reigned into the present and fell upon Molly Hooper. _Funny, _he'd forgotten she was there.

"Case?" She asked light-heartedly.

"A good one," Sherlock replied, voice vibrating from the depths of his chest, "I can feel it. A murder, a deceitful murder. Raw, passionate, intelligent."

Molly restrained a smirk, "What about Moriarty?"

Sherlock knitted his brow, then a realisation hit him. Suddenly, he became aware of the tapestry surrounding him. Evidence upon evidence, the demanding case that had resulted in his continuous existence, the one that had saved his life-

He shrugged.

"Moriarty's ash. If his players want to step out, we will be a dutiful audience. But for now, a play has arrived that demands our utmost attention." He lifted his head, a blisteringly dark smile spreading his cheeks like a lion acquiescing prey, "Shall we, Molly Hooper?"

Wordlessly, Molly nodded. Anticipation flooded her body. Of the case, or of the passionate look in his eyes, she decided it didn't matter. Either way, she was entranced.

Sherlock swept through the flat, tossing his Belstaff coat and scarf on with precision. Molly scrambled behind him, hastily heaving her winter coat and scarf over her jumper.

As detective and pathologist barrelled down the stairs, the latter's words replayed in Sherlock's mind.

_A lot can happen in a year. _

He dismissed the thought. There was a murder to solve. Efficiently, he whipped the keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. Quickly, he whipped his head around and glanced at Molly. His eyes commanded undulating focus.

Molly matched his determined gaze, accepting the challenge ahead.

Yet he hadn't intended for his look to command such a notion. For when he had looked at her, a simple thought had passed through him. So simple, it vibrated like a plucked violin string. It hummed like an Eastern folk song on a spirit's lips.

_We must have a Chess rematch as soon as possible._

* * *

**Well, there we are. The stage is set. **

**There is so much to come... Murders in palaces, faces from the past, and surprises I hope will leave you breathless. Sherlock and Molly have no idea of what's ahead.**

**One note- This story is influenced heavily by music, though it is not a songfic. When specific music is performed, I shall inform you of it. How explicit the use is depends solely on the copyright of the piece in question.**** Being in the industry myself, I can be a stickler for it! Regardless, I've drawn music from genres right across the musical spectrum! Agh I'm so excited! **

**The song that appears in this chapter is: "The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala", by the Arctic Monkeys (2011:Domino Recording Co Ltd.)**

**What's that? A review box just for you? Wow! **

**See you at the next one! **


	2. The Sleet Turned into Snow

**Greetings folks! Hope you're all enjoying the winter season- regardless of whether you're celebrating or otherwise. ****I was floored at the amount of feedback and responses I got for the first chapter. Thank you so much! **

**Just a note- If anyone is reading this on the non-official app (where I usually read), page breaks aren't displaying. I'm not too sure why, but if this is relevant to you just keep your eye out for it. Thanks! :-) **

**Disclaimer: All that is canon belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, the BBC, and all those who carry the copyright of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

"_**Daring ideas are like chessmen moved forward. They may be beaten, but they may start a winning game." ~ **_**Johann Wolfgang von Goethe**

* * *

What Sherlock Holmes appreciated about Molly Hooper, was her disinclination to fuss.

Molly was a quick thinker, learner, and interpreter. Over the years, her judgement had quickened the timescale in which his crimes were solved. She worked with precision, entirely focused on the task at hand. It was a complete contrast to how she presented herself in unfamiliar social situations. That Molly Hooper stumbled over her words, made horrendous jokes and cared far too much. She had been like that around him once. He would have dismissed her upon their first meeting had it not been for her intelligence. Her intellect caught his attention. Her loyalty caused him to place trust in her. With his death, he'd placed his mortality in her hands, and now here he was, alive to tell the tale.

Wholly efficient. That was Doctor Molly Hooper.

The Pathologist and Detective sat side by side in a taxi darker than the night sky, being whisked to the sight of a murder on New Years Night. This case had presented himself with a riveting distraction, and he had accepted full-heartedly.

She had followed without question.

Molly Hooper was filled with enough compassion to sit alongside him, a murderer, and not flinch.

Because, despite everything, she _cared _enough to understand. _Thank you for saving Mary, _she said.

It beguiled him that anyone could hold that much sentiment over him.

The taxi rocked into a pothole-

_Green eyes tore my soul open, gripping onto my veins until I couldn't breathe. The air was thick with dust, the wind bitter. Their hand clasped mine, and we- _

_Focus. _

_There's a crime to solve. _

_Breathe. _

Perhaps Mrs Hudson had been right. Perhaps this _was_ a danger night. Remarkably, freedom felt like a trap that forced him to face the sentiments of others. Molly had grounded him, and though her sentiments stirred the East Wind… He was grateful she was there as London wound around them.

A suppressed smile teased her face. She was imagining him working through the case in his mind, probably placing incredibly romantic metaphors to his thought processes.

She didn't need to know his thoughts were solely on her.

That was irrelevant.

To solidify his deduction, his eyes darted towards her. A streetlamp lit her features as their eyes met. _Like fireworks. _Molly shot him a small smile.

"Sorry mate, I can't get yer much closer." The driver piped up, "Think the road's closed. Some crime or summat-"

"That's precisely why we're going."

The taxi driver cast a confused eye in his front mirror. His face clicked with recognition. "Yer Sherlock 'Olmes!"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth tilted.

"Shouldn't you be after that Moriarty bloke? Scared my little'un so much, that broadcast did." The man chortled, then suddenly sobered. "…He's not running around Shoreditch, is he? Moriarty?"

"Not unless he's dancing with the ghosts." Omitted Sherlock, "Now sir, if you would please focus on the road and get us there in good time I'll pay your fare and however much for the bear in Harrods that's caught your daughter's eye, but you can't afford."

Sherlock and Molly shared a look.

The driver spluttered, aghast, turning back to the road with vigour, "Right yer are, Mr 'Olmes."

The detective held his expression steady, though Molly swore she saw pride.

* * *

The taxi only managed to get them so close before police started waving at the vehicle to turn around.

Within moments, the driver had been paid handsomely, and detective and pathologist emerged onto the street. The cold air gripped their bones.

Molly wrapped her arms over her chest and trotted over to Sherlock's side.

The detective was scanning every surface. Sleet attached itself to his hair and cheekbones, and he didn't flinch.

_If only it were snowing, _Molly thought, _he'd soon become a snowman. _

They were stood on the corner of a street adjacent to the small pub that had become the scene of a New Years murder. The rainbow lights from the inside windows met with rapid flashes from police cars, creating a masquerade of mystery visible for passers-by. The scene was crowded with spectators. Every few seconds, a phone camera flash went off. Police ushered them away from the perimeter.

Amongst the police cars, an ITV news van pulled up. Immediately, a man in a suit climbed from the vehicle. Three more quickly began putting together cameras and microphones.

Sherlock grimaced.

Molly dropped her mouth to speak-

"Not here." He growled, taking her arm.

Molly gasped, stumbling, as he drew her away. Sherlock pulled her into the small gap between two buildings.

"What was that for?" Molly rasped, angling her head to Sherlock's.

Blinking up against the cold droplets, she froze.

Sherlock was poised over her, discerning her with cutting interest. The darkness amplified the intensity of his gaze. His eyes seemed brighter, somehow, as blistering as the fireworks they'd witnessed not long before.

Molly's question was lost to her immediately.

"We need to find another entrance." Sherlock summarised, "If the press sees me after the Moriarty incident, they'll become so excited I won't have means of working efficiently."

"…Right."

Sherlock nodded curtly, then peered out from the alleyway. Molly watched him in earnest, trying to stop her pounding heart.

He gestured her to follow.

And follow, she did.

* * *

An interesting thing about crime, Molly had come to realise over the years, was that different crimes sparked different sorts of atmospheres. As detective and pathologist entered The Old Blue Last, Sherlock stalked ahead of her, ignoring the withering looks passing police and forensics shot him. Molly walked slower, dark eyes wandering, and a singular feeling hit her so raw that it gripped her heart.

Tragedy.

She wondered why Sherlock found it insatiable. Endless people had labelled him as a freak, but Molly wondered deep down if he wanted to be a superhero.

The pub had been taken over by the emergency services and Scotland Yard. A haunted look cast shadows on the civil service employees faces.

It was dystopian.

The bitter sound of sobs caught Molly's attention. On a small bench in the darkened foyer, two young men sat side by side. One sat in stoic silence, arms around the other's shoulders, expression entirely vacant. The latter's face was sodden with tears, his hands gripping tightly onto a bucket. Every so often, he trembled. His hands were covered in dry blood.

Molly swallowed. It was a mirror to when John Watson had sought her the night Sherlock had jumped off St Bart's, and broken down on her doorstep. He didn't even make it inside. His wretched cries still echoed in her mind. She held John on the cold floor. She held him, knowing that in her flat, Sherlock was seeking an emergency escape. His plan to use Molly's flat as a bolt hole was thwarted. He was gone when she'd finally gone back inside. After that, she hadn't seen him for two years.

Molly looked to Sherlock who was stalking the adjacent room with as much intensity as a bloodhound. Despite the air of tragedy, a wave of relief hit her.

_Thank goodness he hasn't had to leave again, I don't know how we would have coped. _

"Molly?"

"Greg, hello."

The Detective Inspector looked as worn as the other forensics. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight. Who asked for you?"

"Oh- Er, well I was with Sherlock, and he insisted. Is- is that okay? I know it isn't official, or-"

Lestrade chuckled, silencing her. "Nothing's official with Sherlock Holmes. Don't worry, it'll be good to have your opinion. You're one of the best-" Suddenly, he stopped, and both his eyebrows raised speculatively, "You spent your New Years with Sherlock?"

"He wanted to pull my brain over the Moriarty broadcast."

"Right." Lestrade nodded, though his lips pursed. He stepped closer, enquiring in a low voice. "Is this a danger night?"

_No _formed upon Molly's lips, but to her surprise, it refused to fall. Though Sherlock claimed he required her for assistance, Molly had felt an air of a man reaching out. Sherlock Holmes was a master of deception, and many a person would believe his self-assured guise… But during the evening there had been moments when he'd look haunted. When they'd played chess, and their eyes met across the board, Molly had felt the air shift as if he was truly grateful she was there-

"Gavin!" A sanctimonious baritone rang.

Greg sighed.

"Detective Inspector," Sherlock began smartly, quickly striding towards the pair, "Though I do appreciate you enquiring to Doctor Hooper about my wellbeing, you may use your limited neural capabilities for more important matters. A murder is afoot."

"…And a _happy_ new year to you too, Sherlock."

"Certainly, a happy new year for Scotland Yard, now that I'm not leaving the country. Your entire police network would have folded within five months without the assistance of my intellect."

Lestrade almost smirked, "Eight."

"No… Definitely five."

There was a brief silence.

"I'm glad you're staying, you git."

Sherlock's lip twitched. He clasped his hands. "Now, show me the corpse."

Lestrade led Sherlock and Molly into the main performance space of the pub. Evidence of the night's celebrations was rampant. Drinking glasses and cans lay scattered on tables, streamers draped across the floor. Stage lights still shone violently, though the usual overhead lights were switched on also. It was sickeningly bright.

As they walked, forensics and police whispered_. 'Moriarty'_ continuously emerged from the soundscape. Sherlock ignored it.

"His name's Luke Yates. Twenty-six. He worked as an electrician for his dad's family business. Though his passion was this band, apparently." Lestrade explained, "They're called The Three Crows. The lads have been friends since secondary school. It's bloody awful."

As Lestrade concluded, they stood in front of the stage stairs. Lestrade and Molly walked up. Sherlock, however, placed both his palms on the stage and jumped up like a silent acrobat.

Molly shot him a look.

Sherlock smirked. "Isn't it ironic that the band is called the three crows?"

"How so?"

He shot her a wolfish grin. "The term for three crows or more is a murder."

"I thought you didn't make jokes, Sherlock."

"It is a fact, not a joke."

In between PA's and microphone stands, laid Luke Yates.

Sadness bloomed in Molly's body. The young man looked so scared. It was terrible.

"You said he was murdered by his instrument?" Sherlock asked, kneeling downwards.

Lestrade nodded, "Yep, his bass. His bandmate told us that he took the bass off his shoulders for the new year countdown, and suddenly he was bleeding and convulsing."

"Show me."

Lestrade showed them the table where the instrument had been laid. Quickly, Sherlock applied gloves and bent to its level, eyes rapidly scanning. Suddenly, he stopped.

Molly held her breath, leaning inwards.

They stood side by side.

Gently, he lifted the instrument upright.

Molly gasped, and Sherlock's eyes widened in wonder.

On the back of the fingerboard near the instrument's head, a sharp piece of stainless steel jutted out. It was drenched in crimson.

Sherlock's head tilted. With a spare hand, he gestured Molly closer, their shoulders brushing. "See this here," He traced a small dint in the plastic from the dagger around to the fingerboard, "The dagger had been built inside, to flick out when triggered by," The hand reached a tuning peg, and twisted it. The dagger moved further out, "This"

"That's awful-"

"-It's magnificent."

They finished at the same time, shared a glance, and continued.

From behind them, Greg nodded. "The issue is _how_ the murderer knew when the victim would tighten that peg. _And _know when that part of the instrument would be placed against his neck-"

"It hit the subclavian artery," Molly interjected, "So surely they knew the victim's movements and habits-"

"And thought this through." Concluded Sherlock. "It's obvious."

"Go on."

The detective stood fully, bringing the instrument with him. Two nearby forensic protested, but Lestrade dismissed them.

Sherlock slipped the strap over his shoulders.

If it wasn't for the grim setting, Molly would have laughed. It looked remarkably out of place compared to his Stradivarius. Sherlock's hands went to the strings, and mapped out a scale on one, then moved onto the next, and so forth. His face was a mask of statuesque concentration.

"Didn't know you could play," Lestrade commented, impressed.

"I can't. The process of elimination and understanding of string mass relating to sounds vibrations make it obvious, regardless of instrument."

"I thought that-"

"Quiet. _Listen_."

Sherlock's hands reached the final and thinnest string, working upwards methodically. He then returned to the previous, and back again. "It's out of tune… So, Luke Yates realises this in the final set, but can hardly hear well enough to tune with the raucous crowd. During the countdown, he lifts the instrument above his head, resting it against his shoulder to discretely tune it," As he explained, he mimicked the actions, "And tightens the tuning peg, thus releasing the dagger, and gets stabbed directly in the artery."

"Jesus." Lestrade cursed, running a palm through his hair.

"I need to speak to Yate's fellow band members. See who handled the instrument during the evening."

"Sherlock, you don't have clearance for that-"

"Do you want this case to be solved or not?"

Greg sighed.

* * *

Molly was captivated.

To an outsider, Sherlock Holmes would have appeared a dark, stoic stranger. His features, sharp and statuesque, intimidating and yet remarkable. She felt like an outsider glancing at a fortress of a king.

He stared ahead, completely still, as if discerning the nothingness ahead. However, every few moments his fingers twitched, as if grasping for ideas in the darkness.

In front of him, he saw life.

How did he see mysteries in his mind? Did he imagine it like a theatre, with the players assembling, potential motives and villains whispering from the wings? Or he did he see them in flashes of colour, patterns swirling and morphing like a mural of Van Gogh artwork across his synapses?

If Sherlock imagined a case like a theatre, then this moment would surely be performed under a spotlight; Minimal and brutal. The storage room was small. Boxes lined the walls, and a low light hung from an ageing wire. In the room was a small desk carrying a laptop and employees rotas left out haphazardly. Two chairs had been pulled into the other side.

Smartly, Sherlock steepled his hands together. And waited.

Towards the door, Lestrade and Molly stood together. A sense of unease filtering between them.

Sherlock hadn't expected to be here today, Molly knew. When considering his future after shooting Magnussen, the outcome had been bleak. So bleak, he'd relapsed into drug use. Days before, Sherlock was in the reverse this position. Himself the subject of questioning. Did he feel undermined as a detective now he was a murderer himself? Was he-

"It was a necessary evil, Molly. Don't think about it." The detective snapped.

Molly inhaled sharply, both at his accurate deduction and the bite of his words. Anxiously, she sought his eyes, but they returned to the wall, devoid of the fire of a moment before.

Lestrade looked between them questioningly.

Molly looked away. "I shouldn't be in here," She started, "Legally I shouldn't-"

"It's never stopped John." Sherlock interrupted.

"…I'm not John."

"No. You're substantially more intelligent." He flicked his head towards her, "Stay."

Molly oscillated, Greg shrugged his shoulders, and she stayed.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

_The rain drenched our clothes, a welcome respite from the desert's ashen air. Droplets danced on their eyelashes, reflecting against illustrious emerald. _

"…_Why should I stay?" _

"_Because we need each other." I explained methodically, "Our lives depend on it." _

_Through sodden linen, an eyebrow raised. Victory seized me. Curiosity gave purpose. Curiosity gave hope. _

"Lestrade," A voice announced, "They're here."

"Good," The Inspector announced, "Bring them in."

Sherlock's eyes opened and the images dissipated. If his stomach twisted, he didn't flinch.

_Focus. _

Silence reigned as the two band members were brought in. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his synapses configured, and he went to work.

_Musician One. Definition of arm muscles and callouses across the transverse and proximal flesh of the palm. Drummer. Twenty-Six. University shirt, worn. Graduate in Economics from London Metropolitan. Hasn't found relevant employment. Smoker. _

_Musician Two. In shock. The victim died in arms. Friends- no, sentiment- Grief- _Emerald eyes_\- _Focus_. Hair trimmed twice in three months. Image conscious. Callouses on fingertips, electric guitarist. Nervous- hands twitching- Trauma or general trait? No, physical or mental impediment. _

The drummer rested his hands on the guitarist's arm. The latter was trembling. Molly's heart went out to them.

"Am I to presume Luke Yates had the same tattoo as you both?" Sherlock asked, baritone deep, collected, and professional.

Musician One spoke, "Isn't it your job to see that?"

"His arms were covered, unlike yours. It is unwise to start manhandling the corpse-" Musician two heaved, and Sherlock reconsidered his words, "Your _friend, _during such an early stage of the investigation."

"Well… Uh, yeah." Musician One nodded, placated, "We all do. Got them done last year."

Sherlock's head tilted, concentrating on the tattoo in question. Both men's upper arms carried a crow sat upon a musical note, wearing a crown of iris flowers. The image was jagged. It reminded the detective of John Tenniel illustrations in novels from his childhood.

"What's the significance?"

"What does this have to do with Luke?" Questioned Musician One.

"I'm Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes. I specialise in observing the ordinary and discovering the impossible."

"Lewis… _Don't."_ Musician Two interceded. His mouth opened and closed repetitively, the _d _falling after several seconds of physical effort.

_Interesting. _

Sherlock turned to musician One – _Lewis_ – asking, "Who's this?"

"This is Jake. He's our lead singer and guitarist. He has a proper bad stammer, not that it's bad in front of us after all these years, like. …But he's traumatised and can hardly get a word out. Don't push him."

Sherlock scanned musician Two- _Jake_\- "You don't stammer when you're on stage?"

The guitarist stared, wide-eyed, and shook his head.

"It's amazing." Lewis continued, "Even when it was super bad in school, it always vanished when he played or sang. Still does… But what does this have to do with Luke?"

Sherlock ignored the question, and the looks of ware Molly and Lestrade were sending his way. "Your _friend, _Luke, had a device implanted within his instrument. Upon tuning the fourth string, a blade was released that punctured an artery."

Silence.

"Whoever planted this had to know his habits. They had to be aware of how long his bass usually takes to detune. It's a relatively old model, it's been through two owners before Yates… Whoever did this knew exactly that."

Molly straightened and held her breath. The air was getting thicker by the second. If possible, Sherlock's cheekbones were becoming sharper.

"Listen, mate- Mr Holmes," Lewis started, nervous, "Whatever you're assuming-"

"I don't _assume_. I deduce, observe, and draw conclusions." Suddenly, Sherlock stood, ramrod straight. "Hooper, a word."

Molly didn't move, until Lestrade nudged her. Sherlock walked out of the room. Molly worried her bottom lip, then followed suit.

As she entered the next room, Sherlock was talking to a policeman she didn't recognise. The policeman nodded, lifting her handcuffs attached to her belt. Sherlock nodded, she returned it, and then strode into the room.

Suddenly, Sherlock stalked towards her.

"…It was one of them?" Molly asked in a small voice, despite knowing the answer would be affirmative. She felt hollow. Those men were _friends- _This was why she preferred the dead. The living were too messy, too upsetting-

"Molly. I need you to focus." Sherlock interrupted. Unconsciously, he tilted her chin with a finger towards him, commanding her focus.

She gulped.

"I need you to go take Jake, the guitarist, out of the room. Take him to the staff room. Keep him company. Talk about cats… Or something."

"Why?"

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. Why did she require context now? Time was of the essence. "Because Lewis, the drummer, committed the murder. Jake was in love with the victim, Luke. His grief is going to shatter the integrity of the arrest. I need him out of the way."

"…What? Oh _God,_ that's-"

"Focus, Molly. Don't be like John. Will you do this for me?"

Molly was stunned. The horror of the crime clung to her like ice. Sherlock's face kept her frozen. A storm raged behind his eyes. Though his request was professional, something struck her that barrelled right through her body. _He's saving the man from more grief. _

"Molly." Sherlock repeated, "_Molly-" _

"Y-Yeah, sure."

The detective merely blinked, then went back into the office. A moment later, Jake stumbled out.

After battling with the first consonant, a broken sentence fell. "…Why do they w-want to keep Lewis? He's not d…done anything."

Molly's heart broke. She forced a wobbly smile on her face. "They just want to ask some more questions. …Shall we go sit down somewhere quiet?"

After deliberation, Jake nodded.

Molly offered her hand for support, he took it, and she led him away.

* * *

Molly didn't know how much time passed in the young man's company. They sat alone in the pub's small staff room, both nursing a small glass of water. Molly had shared her condolences, but Jake had fallen mute.

A thousand thoughts tumbled around her mind, but none came into focus. She thought of Sherlock, of his reasoning behind protecting the young man. It troubled her. Not that Sherlock was incapable of caring- _he was- _but he rarely displayed such a courtesy towards strangers. Usually, he'd expose everything to all witnesses, gaging more about the case from interpreting their reactions. Everything was information. _Grief _was information.

Yet he'd decided to protect this young man from learning his friend had murdered his lover.

An image replayed in her synapses; '_There are many anniversaries I'd rather not relive', _he'd said, earlier that night.

Anxiety flared. Was she being ridiculous? Probably. Sherlock didn't _do_ sentiment, not in the same manner other people did. Her emotions were forcing her to link events of no relevance to each other. _If there was something more, surely John would know. You have no reason to worry. _

"…Excuse me?" The guitarist spoke, a broken whisper.

Molly forced her tired eyes to focus. An empathetic expression transformed into a gentle smile. "Yeah?"

Jake's chin trembled. "…H-have you ever had a broken heart?"

The question caught her off guard. Tom's shattered expression flashed before her, followed by her sobbing at Sherlock's bedside after he'd been shot. She sniffed, and brushed a loose hair behind her ear, "Yeah."

"How did you d…do this? It burns. It _burns." _

Softly, Molly stood and walked to his side. She sat and rested her hand on his. Silently, he placed his head on her shoulder. He was seeking comfort, and Molly was in no position to deny him.

"You be strong," Molly told him, "You use your love to be strong. Otherwise, the fire consumes you… Your love is cooling rain."

"That's nice," The blonde man exhaled in a whimper, "Could use it in a s…song."

Molly smiled sadly, squeezing his palm. "Go ahead, I bet it'll be beautiful."

_CRASH_

The pair stopped breathing.

_CRASH, BANG, SLAM- Argh! CRASH- _

A policeman burst through the door. "Stay here!" They barked, moving to keep Jake in the room.

Molly didn't listen.

She ran to the noise, heart in her throat.

In the same performance area where Luke Yate's body lay, drummer Lewis was brandishing a broken glass. He was shouting. Police were reaching for their guns. Lestrade saw her and held an arm out- _Don't come close._

Sherlock was stood in the middle of the formed circle, hands outstretched.

"Let me go! You… You bastards! You have no evidence!"

"You confessed." Sherlock shot, sneering viciously, "Or has your short-term memory failed you?"

"But it wasn't me!" Lewis expostulated. He swore and waved the sharp glass in a warning. "It's not my fault!"

"Lewis, I do believe it makes one complicit in murder when you make their instrument a _murder weapon _with the intent of bodily harm-"

"No! It wasn't like that. Stop putting words in my mouth!" The drummer lunged, enraged, but a police officer unlocking the safety on their gun halted him. He froze, jaw aghast. "Yes… I did that bit. _I admit it. _But I didn't know it'd be used."

"What do you mean?" Demanded Sherlock, adrenaline spiking with interest.

From the edge of the epicentre of drama, Molly gripped onto the top of a chair. Her heart pounded.

Lewis' body shook with tension, eyes protruding like a man on the precipice of insanity. "…Luke wasn't _right."_

Lestrade straightened, alarmed.

"He wasn't good enough." Lewis hissed, "I thought he was, but he _wasn't_."

"So, you killed him?" A policeman asked, aghast. "What does that mean- He wasn't good enough?"

Sherlock's mind was spinning a multitude of theories every second.

"You bastards know nothing." Lewis spat, baring his teeth. He twisted his head, dark hair spilling onto his shoulders, and squaring Sherlock directly in his eye line.

"…Three crows _are_ a murder. You're going to have a bloody great year, Sherlock Holmes."

Then, he lunged.

A cry ripped from Molly's throat as Sherlock was thrown to the ground. The rest was a blur. Policeman and forensics threw themselves into a thunderous defence. She lost sight of Sherlock immediately. Her feet propelled her toward, but suddenly she was held back by a forensic. All she heard were grunts, cries for arrest, and the continuous sounds of fabric fighting against each other. Her head began to spin.

Out of the rumble, a crash echoed. Molly shouted, but there was no need. The flurry of people stood back. Three policemen had Lewis pinned to the ground.

Sherlock rolled off the floor and pushed himself to his feet.

Immediately, he met eyes with his panic-stricken pathologist.

He was unharmed.

...He looked _annoyed. _

"…He's ripped them both, Molly." Sherlock stated, outraged, "My scarf _and _my coat. By God, it might as well have been a _double_ homicide!_"_

Molly stared.

Lestrade sighed.

* * *

The sleet had turned into snow.

Detective and Pathologist were stood around the back of the pub, in a poorly covered smoking area. Lestrade had sent for a police escort to collect them and take them back to their flats, away from the front door and the press.

Lewis had been arrested, Jake had been escorted to his parent's house, and Luke Yates' body had been transported to the morgue; St Bart's, at Lestrade's request.

It was eerily quiet now, the silence was broken by the odd commotion of press a few hundred metres away and the policemen inside.

Tiny flurries of snow drifted from the sky. They danced against the streetlamps, twisting and turning until they met the tarmac below. Due to the previous weather, the snow didn't stick. It dissolved into darkness, from dancing into slumber.

Sherlock observed the snowfall with a keen eye, though his mind was elsewhere.

_He wasn't right._

_You're going to have a bloody great year, Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock's intuition had been correct. This wasn't an average murder. Someone wished the new year to commence with a grand opening number.

A soft voice called to him, and he ignored it. _Focus. _It tried again, and this time a soft sensation brushed against his arm. His eyes drifted downwards. It was Molly Hooper's cold hand. After consideration, he decided to offer her his attention.

"Aren't you cold?"

Sherlock was freezing. "I'm fine."

He wasn't wearing his coat or scarf. He refused to wear either, on the chance the press did find him and see visible evidence he'd been involved in a fight. After the Moriarty broadcast, any attention that could be manipulated would be entirely detrimental.

He almost told Molly he was cold, but he decided against it. That would open a door to her proximity, which in turn would invoke her sentiment. Though he cared for her, truly, it was a better measure to avoid it. Molly's adrenaline after seeing him in danger would have intensified her feelings for him tenfold. It made him uncomfortable. He preferred clinical Molly, caring but distant. When she pressed herself closer, he withdrew, and it hurt her heart unnecessarily.

_We opened up to one another under the light of the moon, and I never felt stronger, nor wiser. Companionship was always a detrimental feat until I was held within their simplicity. With miles yet to tread, there was so much to learn. The blisters would heal, and my mind would soar-_

"Sherlock," Molly inquired softly, pulling him out of his thoughts, "Tonight… Do you think it's a singular murder? Only, what that man said…"

Sherlock forced aside the emptiness in his chest, settling for formality. "It's only the beginning."

"…You're sure?"

"Lewis said that Luke _wasn't right_. If he wasn't right, then somebody else will be. And until they find that person…"

"Who's they?" Molly's brow knitted, "Because they arrested Lewis."

"Lewis admitted to this murder, but I don't believe he was the one who decided it to be committed. He was following orders."

"From who?"

Blue eyes followed a snowflake drift from the air and land on Molly's hair, white against brown. "I don't know. Isn't that wonderful?"

A light giggle emanated from her throat, and his lip quipped in a smile.

"What you did for Jake tonight," Began Molly, "Sparing his feelings… I know you don't do it often, Sherlock. But I want you to know how grateful I am, truly."

Sherlock didn't respond. Her words stirred a wave of unwanted reactions in his synapses. Ones she didn't need to know about. Instead, he turned his attention back to the snowfall.

"Molly, I was wondering if you'd be interested in returning to Baker Street for another chess match?"

There was a brief silence, then another giggle. "It's 4am, Sherlock."

"Why does the time of day constitute whether or not we return to chess?"

"Because, unlike certain Consulting Detective's, I actually require sleep."

"Ah. _Sleep." _His mouth formed the word like bitter lemon. "It's an easy feat forgetting that ordinary people _require_ that."

Molly snickered, and Sherlock saw her become teasing. He decided he liked the expression on her.

"Toby will skin me alive if I don't go back and feed him."

"Of course. _The cat_. I will duly await solving that murder, should the occasion arise… Feline skins Pathologist over lack of wet pouch meals." The detective raised a snarky brow, "I can hear John's blog now…: _The Ferocious Famished Feline." _

Molly feigned a gasp, "_Three _uses of alliteration? I hope he doesn't tarnish my name like that."

Sherlock chuckled, and to his surprise, it felt incredibly easy to.

Molly softened, staring at him with wide eyes. "You will be alright if I go back to my flat, won't you? I mean… You are welcome to stay if you'd like."

Sherlock placed his hands in his pockets. "No need. I need to compartmentalise the events of the evening into my mind palace. Memory recall will be imperative when there is another murder."

"Of course."

For a moment, they drifted into silence. Molly watched the snowfall upon his hair, and it was incredibly hard not to reach up and ruffle it.

Sherlock shivered.

"You liar," Molly chided with a grin, "You're freezing. Here." Awkwardly, she unwrapped her scarf from her neck.

Sherlock's arms raised in protest but halted at the look she gave him. Without thought, she reached upwards and threaded it around his neck, and he found himself leaning lower to give her easier access. Her hands wound two loose knots to secure it.

Sherlock watched her, transfixed. Her lips slightly parted in concentration, her brow drew together.

Almost as soon as she'd begun, her hands stilled on the final knot. Her eyes raised.

Brown met blue.

Only then, did they both realise they were sharing the same air.

Sherlock cleared his throat, Molly smiled awkwardly, and they stepped apart.

"There." She announced, eyeing her handiwork.

The scarf looked horrendous.

It was a bright red seasonal number. Molly always wished to prolong the festive season, Sherlock knew. Though the material was of decent quality and length, it was decidedly _un-Sherlock_.

He looked at the scarf, then to her, then back again. "…Dear Lord, I look like Father Christmas."

"I think it suits you."

"You're lying."

"...You're not meant to know that."

With a shared glance of restrained amusement, they broke down laughing. As his body released with laughter, Sherlock came to realise what a wonderful thing laughing was. Until days ago, he thought he'd never laugh again.

* * *

London was full of ghosts. Every step Sherlock trod, a thousand people had trod before him. The only new thing was the snow.

Silently, Sherlock ascended the stairs back to his flat.

Sherlock stepped through the threshold of his home. The fire that had thrived earlier now was cooling ash. A deep blue encompassed the space, elongating the dark empty shadows. The evidence of the Moriarty case still laid scattered. _MISS ME _taunted him from its spot on the wall.

_Just another ghost._

The detective paced over to the fireplace, procured a lighter, and lit a singular candle.

An orb of light bloomed.

For a long moment, the solitude man stood amongst the shadows, drawn only to the flame.

Tonight had been harder than he'd anticipated. Killing Magnussen and nearly facing death as a result had assaulted his synapses with memories he'd fought not to face for an incredibly long time. It was jarring. He couldn't afford to lose his focus like that, lost in the time that no-one mentioned anymore. At least Molly had focussed him. He was grateful she had been there.

Sherlock stared into the flame's glow. It stirred a deep sensation in his hollow chest. He placed his palm there and murmured a few words.

It was enough to help. Just for tonight.

He could concentrate now.

_Time to work, _he thought.

Quickly, he rearranged the chessboard on his coffee table, every piece in its starting position. The consulting detective sat upon the settee, placing his hands together. The new case laid at the forefront of his mind. Something new. Something that _wasn't_ Moriarty. Something to lift him back to life once more.

With artful grace, he leaned out and grasped a small pawn. Its pale sheen was smooth against his fingertips.

_This is Luke Yates, _he decided.

Examining the piece, his peripheral caught the sight of red. Sherlock frowned, then realised what it was.

He was still wearing Molly Hooper's scarf.

The wind whistled against the window.

Smoothly, he eased it off his neck with one hand and held it against his knee. It was soft, warm, and bright. Like Molly was.

Without realising, a smile played on his lips.

He reached out with his other hand and placed the pawn on the board.

Then, he slid it forward.

_You're going to have a bloody great year, Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

**A review box, just for you? It looks suspiciously like a Christmas present... Wow! **

**I never do this, but I'd like to dedicate this chapter personally to all the service workers who are working over the Christmas/New Year period across the world, seeing as they are featured in this chapter. If you are/you know people who work in these fields, please send them some love! Especially for your NHS workers in the UK. They deserve the world for what they do. **

**Coming up, there is a murder at Hampton Court Palace, Sherlock and Molly dress up, and the game intensifies... **

**Thank you so much for your continued support. **


	3. The Solitary King

**Right folks, are you craving some drama with some romantic chemistry on top? Then I have the fix for you! This chapter has been so much fun to write! We begin four days after we just left off.**

**Off to the Castle we go... **

**Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs to those who hold the copyright of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

"_I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people: that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other." ~ Rainer Rilke_

* * *

**January 5th**

If there was one thing John had learned over his years as Sherlock Holmes' friend, it was to never expect normality.

He'd go shopping and return to bullet holes in the wall. He'd bid goodnight, then hear swords clashing through the walls. He'd write, then Sherlock would emerge dressed as a vicar, Father Christmas, a drag queen- and so much more.

Perhaps, surprise had become_ his _normality.

Somehow, it suited him better.

Shivering, John thrust his key into the Baker Street residence he'd once called home. A sigh of relief fell from his lips as the flat's warmth engulfed him. John offered his wife his hand and eased her inside.

John had taken it upon himself to see Sherlock, just before midnight. The time didn't bother him; Sherlock scarcely kept regular hours. After several days of little contact, Sherlock's absence was wearing on him. It wasn't like Sherlock to be so _dormant. _Their relationship had shifted when Sherlock had shot Magnussen. John knew things would-

"_Surely not?!" A baritone boomed._

"_Let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave!" _

John and Mary froze.

"_Pardon?"_

"_It's Shakespeare, Sherlock! I won!" _

Mary grasped her husband's arm, "Is that Molly-"

John shushed, then nodded his head to follow.

And follow she did.

"_I'm aware it is Shakespeare. It's Henry VI Part Three. However, your use is improper. That play was written in the-" _

"What the hell is this?!" John exclaimed.

Simultaneously, Detective and Pathologist leapt backwards.

"Oh… My God." Mary gasped, unable to keep the heinous giggle from her lips.

_Well, _John thought, _this is certainly a new one. _

In the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, stood a Detective and Pathologist at opposite sides of a table. In between them, a chessboard stood proudly.

However, it was not that that turned Watson's jaw's south or almost induced Mary's labour.

No.

The Detective and Pathologist stood, in the kitchen, at almost midnight… In Elizabethan dress. From wired skirts and ruffs to male tights and doublets, there they were.

Sherlock cleared his throat, aristocratic countenance domineering. "Greetings John, Mary, Foetus."

The couple stared.

"Mary, are you crowning? If so, I would direct you both to the nearest hospital. I doubt my floor is the safest birthplace for your offspring..." Sherlock lowered his voice, "Hardwood."

"S-Sherlock!" Molly protested.

"What," John spluttered, "What is this?"

"I'm playing chess with Doctor Hooper."

"No-" John gestured wildly in front of him, "What is _this?!" _

"You're going to have to be more specific-"

"Christ, Sherlock!" Interrupted Mary, "Why do you and Molly look like you've just walked off the set of The Tudors?!"

"Oh... Case."

"_Case?"_

* * *

**Fourteen Hours Earlier**

Despite his dalliances into keeping company over previous years, Sherlock Holmes would attest to the fact he was a solitary man.

Often, society perceived solitude as a negative force which required remedies such as soap operas, book clubs, or- God forbid- _online dating. _However, Sherlock Holmes considered solitude and loneliness two separate mediums.

Solitude empowered him.

In the living room of 221B Baker Street, the world's only consulting detective sprawled upon his chair. It was a bright morning, winter sun blistered through the tall windows. A large ray of light fell upon his shoulder, and to the book in his hands.

It was a collection of writings of significance from Nineteenth Century authors of Europe; in their respective languages. Translations often lacked the colour of the original texts. It was with the German writers he resonated with most. Though Sherlock was a man guided by fact, not romanticism, the introspective nature of the genre often provided clarity to his thoughts.

His breath was even as he recited Schopenhauer's philosophy that solitude created freedom within oneself, and Goethe's insistence that solitude sourced inspiration. Sherlock settled upon the words of Rilke, claiming that true love occured when two solitudes met and protected eachother.

Suddenly, a dusk claimed his irises, a breeze interrupted his thoughts, and quiet halted his breath-

"_I never thought I'd find peace here." They mused, emerald eyes admiring vast constellations with a rarefied tranquillity, "This land isn't host for life, and yet I've never felt more like I belong… If I die here, I will be content walk among these plains for a million years."_

"_If, indeed, we perish, I would feel it apt to walk with you. Two solitary spirits, side by side." _

Sherlock slammed the book shut.

Yet another source of distraction halted by _unwanted thoughts._

He swept to his feet- ignoring the itching in his hands, elbows, and mind- and reached for John's old gun. It was the source of his discordance in the first place. For when he shot Magnussen, he released the key to _reliving-_

"Oh, do shut up." He berated the air.

Sherlock sought _MISS ME _pinned on the wall, where it had stood proudly since New Year's Eve.

Moriarty whispered into his ear lobes, raising the hairs on his neck. The whispers turned into laughs, into taunts, into _I told you so-_

"Your fault!"

In one swift motion, an arm shot out, a bang echoed, and the 'I' of MISS ME was left with a hole on top of it.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock span. "Molly?"

The silver-haired man at door gaped, one hand on the door handle, one eyebrow soaring for the heavens. "Nope… Just me."

There was a pause.

"Gavin?"

"Greg."

"_Right." _

The DI looked perturbed. "…You thought I was Molly?"

"You all look the same to me." Sherlock batted the arm holding the gun.

The DI oscillated.

Irritated, Sherlock began pacing, back and forth, back and forth-

"Sherlock," Lestrade began, dread encroaching on his every breath, "Are you… I mean- Christ- _Have _you-"

"No, Lestrade. I am not high." Sherlock pulled his sleeves down to evidence his elbows, "See? Perfectly sober. Just… _Configuring_."

Lestrade forced aside his displeasure at the recent marks, which he knew were scarcely over a week old. "...By shooting the _wall?"_

"The adrenaline helps me think."

It wasn't entirely unpleasant that Lestrade had interrupted his solitude. The DI had come with information about the case that commenced on New Year. One look had told him that.

Unfortunately, unless urgent, Lestrade was a man who liked to navigate _pleasantries. _He stepped into the threshold with a haughty grin, "So, er- Molly …Has she been here a lot lately?"

"Not since New Year. I have been researching chess battle plans to completely obliterate her upon our next meeting."

Greg coughed, avoiding the double entendre reminding himself he was talking to _Sherlock Holmes. _"…What about John?"

"The arrival of his spawn is imminent."

"You're not ignoring him, are you?"

"No. I just considered it," Sherlock deabted his words, "_Necessary, _to give him space. The stress these past few weeks was probably to the ill effect of their progeny… Stop smirking, Lestrade- Despite what you may think, I am sometimes capable of _care_."

Lestrade chuckled, taking place in John's chair. "Out of all people, I understand that more than most."

"Unfortunately."

"So, John-"

"John visited two days ago. I informed him I'm taking cases whilst studying Moriarty's web diligently. He's offered to come and help me; however, Mary is in the nesting stage of her pregnancy and I fear his dismissal will be hard to come by… Until she gets sick of him, of course."

"Of course."

For a moment, amiable silence greeted them. Sherlock considered it calm, but the prevailing urgency for data caused his limbs to remain tight.

"What updates do you have on Luke Yates' murder?" Questioned Sherlock, "You have a significant line of inquiry you didn't have yesterday."

Lestrade helplessly smiled at Sherlock's eager deductions and interlaced his fingers across his lap. "Well, firstly, be aware Lewis, the drummer, still isn't talking. He hasn't said a single word since his arrest."

Knowing this, Sherlock nodded.

"However, our teams have found something of significance on his email account. An email thread all band members were CC'd in."

_Finally, another distraction. _"Go on."

"There is a series of correspondence with a lady called Evangeline O'Brien. She is events coordinator at Hampton Court Palace. _Apparently_ they were booked for a performance there tonight."

Sherlock frowned, mind theorising, silk threads being drawn together. "That's surely more a place for Purcell than Shoreditch indie bands."

"Don't know what Purcell is mate, but yeah- It's strange. They've been booked supposedly by Ishaan Bansal, a millionaire- He owns several stock shares in shoe production or something- Anyway, it's for his Tudor themed birthday party."

"He hired the _palace_?"

"To be a king in his own right, I suppose." Lestrade leaned forwards, brow knitting, "But it gets more interesting… According to the correspondence, Evangeline O'Brien _attended_ The Old Blue Last the night Yates was murdered."

The Detective sat, ramrod straight.

"She'd left them an email on the twenty-ninth, stating she'd attend to confirm they're _right _for their client."

Suddenly, Sherlock stood.

_Luke wasn't right. I thought he was, but he wasn't._

"Lestrade," The detective marvelled, "Despite your inferior intellect you have _genuinely _proved yourself useful."

"Don't sound so surprised-"

"This could be the missing piece of the puzzle. Lewis was following orders that night. Though he set up the murder weapon, he didn't _trigger _the device on the bass guitar. Someone else did. The person who decided Luke _wasn't right_. They're the key." The detective made haste to the door. "I need data. Everything you have. I'll go undercover at the castle tonight, scour out Miss O'Brien in person."

Lestrade moved after him, "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I will require the use of your car."

"…My car is at home."

"We'll get it. I am not wasting time on a train out of London today." The Detective threw his Belstaff over his shoulders, grabbed his keys-

"New Belstaff?"

"Mm?"

"That, that you're wearing… It's a new Belstaff. You got that sorted quickly, after-"

"Called in a favour." Omitted the detective, "Focus, Lestrade. There is no time for trivia." Smartly, he tossed his mobile to the DI.

The DI almost dropped it.

"Call Mycroft. Tell him I need two Elizabethan costumes in superior accuracy and condition by this midday."

"Two?"

Sherlock made for the door, stopped, pivoted, and shot a wolfish grin. "Yes."

"Sherlock, I'm not going- Without a warrant, I can't meddle-"

"Obviously."

"Then who's the other for?"

Sherlock grinned. "Molly Hooper."

* * *

An auburn ponytail bobbed down a paved street. Molly Hooper hummed along to George Ezra's latest single playing into her ears. Commuters mulled past her-

_Bzzzz_

-But she hardly noticed.

_Bzzzz_

It was only going to be a six-hour shift at St Bart's; for Molly, this was a _joy. _She couldn't wait to get home. She had promised Sherlock a chess rematch and hadn't-

_SCREEEECH_

A car screamed around a bend. Commuters panicked. For a split second, Molly froze. Then, her feet dragged her away. A silver car honked its horn. It almost veered onto the curb. Chaos exploded. Molly ran. Closer. _Closer._ She fell-

Break noise tore through the air, and the car shrieked to a halt. …Right next to her.

The pathologist was crumpled on the ground with arms raised protectively, As the hum of the car fell silent, she finally raised her brown eyes.

London's only consulting detective glared at her, head poking from the window.

"Don't you ever answer your phone?!"

Her body slacked.

"What… What the _hell Sherlock!" _

"Molly, stop dithering on the floor and get in."

"W…What?!"

A devilish sneer spread Sherlock's lips into a Cheshire cat like grin, "I require the assistance of your intellect."

"You can't just drive like that-"

"Of course I can. I had to catch you before you got to work. The parking at Bart's is _horrendous."_

"You scared the whole of London!"

"Don't be dramatic, Molly." He tapped seat next to him, "Get in."

Molly glared, a death-cold stare that caused his cheek to twinge. "I have _work_."

"Yes, you do. _Fieldwork_. Stamford has cleared it with me."

"For God's sake-" Molly stormed around the car to her door and dragged it open, then collapsed into the passenger seat and fastened her seat belt. "You could have _hurt_ someone."

"_You_ could have answered your phone."

Sherlock reversed the car onto the street, ignoring the discombobulated pedestrians, and pulled out onto the road.

Molly's heart pounded against her ribs. "…I didn't even know you had a car."

"It's not mine."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You stole it?"

"No," His eyes trained on the road, "It's been leant to me."

"By who?"

Sherlock's smirked. "Work it out."

Immediately Molly's eyes started scanning the details of the vehicle she was in. Then she saw it, tucked under her seat. Molly blushed, sat up straight, and folded her arms.

_Time for revenge. Sherlock Holmes won't be the only one with surprises._

"…Isn't it obvious?"

"Enlighten me."

"Well… The car is for a bachelor, clearly."

An angular brow bounced in intrigue. "How so?"

"The driver's seat is worn. My seat, however, is hardly used. This individual rarely travels with company. Single, then. Divorced maybe? Never mind the seats behind me, they're scarcely broken into. No children, then. …The cologne indicates it's a man's car," She pouted, "But I guess that could be yours."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Maybe not, then. The car heating button is smudged… He isn't partial to the cold. He's used to working indoors then. There's two, no, _three-_ pens and two notepads scattered around. He takes notes but isn't that organised."

_Surely, he knows I'm lying. _

Sherlock was frowning inquisitively.

_Maybe not. _

"So we're looking for a man- a bachelor- with no children, who takes notes at work and would have the_ gall_ to lend his car to Sherlock Holmes. After much consideration, I conclude that this vehicle belongs to Greg Lestrade!"

Sherlock's adams apple bobbed, "How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"The… Thing."

"What thing?"

Sherlock waved one hand off the wheel, "The deduction thing, Molly"

"Guess I learned from the best."

A steely blue eye eyed her, flicked downwards, and then back to the road. "…Or you just saw Lestrade's ID under your chair."

"…Or I just saw Lestrade's ID under my chair."

There was a brief silence, then they snickered.

"Molly Hooper, you seem to be catching me out a lot lately," Sherlock reflected, turning a corner, they were joining the motorway, "You should be careful."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not the sort of man you should play tricks on."

"_You fooled everyone."_

_Their emerald eyes were blown wide in mortal fear. This was their end. Their eyes trained on the gun at my waist. Their intensity stabbed my synapses, and a kaleidoscope of colour became me. _

"_What happens now?" _

_My eyes closed, yet emerald remained burned on my vision, like winter sun. My head bowed at its brightness, and I couldn't fathom the words that fell from my lips. _

"_We run."_

After a moment of silence, Molly ventured, "Where are we going? You said there was a break in the case?"

Sherlock remained still.

"Sherlock?"

Like a breeze whispering over dense forest, he suddenly returned. A flash of concern came and went.

"Molly," His voice was thick, "Have you ever been to Hampton Court Palace?"

"The Henry VIII one?"

"No, not just the-" He saw her face in his peripheral and grimaced, "Yes, the Henry VIII one."

Sherlock continued to explain the events of the morning, and details she'd missed over previous days. Lewis Brenner, the drummer who had murdered Luke Yates had remained mute since his arrest. Molly's autopsy of Luke had come back with nothing significant. And their background checks, up until now, showed nothing of interest. Sherlock had spent hours observing Brenner's interrogations. Molly asked whether his deductions had suggested anything.

"In my deduction processes," Sherlock explained, "Eighty-Six percent of observations lay within body language and responses. Speech plays an impartial part, and yet this _ordinary _man, this _ordinary _killer is reaping nothing. It's abhorrent."

"…And you think Evangeline O'Brien has the answers? You think she's involved?" Molly asked.

"It seems too pretty to be a coincidence."

"Why Hampton Court Palace though? What's the significance?"

The detective pondered for a moment, a rare expression on Sherlock Holmes. "I don't know," He replied, "How exhilarating."

"…What do you need me to do?"

"We're going undercover." He smirked as her jaw dropped in protest, "Yes, I know you work with cadavers over the living, and I know you lack many social graces-" Sherlock stopped, saw her glare, and changed track, "But the other officers are _idiots._ You're entirely more efficient."

Smiling a little too much at the passive complement, Molly sat back against the chair. Sherlock seemed brighter today, she thought. Much less of a sombre figure who had greeted her on New Year's Eve. A mystery to stir his veins into a concoction of drive and enthusiasm calmed him. She only hoped it stayed that way. Sherlock was changeable. He was still recovering from his relapse, from Magnussen, and possibly- Molly thought- a plethora of ghosts. Molly hoped he had someone to open up to, but _open _wasn't a term easily applied to him- Perhaps _she_ could encourage it. Molly knew he trusted her.

"Sherlock, you know when you were exiled," Molly saw his jaw clench, "_Sorry- _I'm just curious."

"Curiosity can be a dangerous endeavour."

"…Did you fight it?"

Sherlock stared at the road so intently it may as well have been a tapestry of fine art, of mountains and emerald pastures-

"This is not worth discussion, Molly."

"…But _did _you? You were to never see John again, or Mycroft, or-" _Or me. _She gulped in a deep breath. "Did you try and stop it? Did you try and stay?"

A stiff silence gripped the car.

A match struck was a beautiful light, until it was placed against cloth and became an impenetrable fire.

"Why does this fascinate you?" Countered Sherlock, consonants sharpening, "Why do you prolong this inquiry?"

"Sherlock-"

"No, I didn't fight my exile. Why doesn't every guilty man protest his judgement in court? I understood the consequences of my actions. Perhaps I found_ solace_ into returning to nothing. I was dead once before, remember. Beautiful simplicity, beautiful solitude, beautiful ash."

_The rapid rotations of helicopter wings rattled in my ears, shaking the earth I stood upon. _

"_Sherlock." There was a silence, an uncertainty in that name. "Little brother, we need to board. You're required in London. Your purgatory is over." _

_Panic tumbled up my throat. I was a feral animal being dragged to captivity. London the enclosure, the people witnesses to my barren cage. Every thought and deduction pained me, for it was all 'them'. My only reprieve, my only solace was-_

"_I don't wish to return."_

_It was a plea I never thought I'd have uttered. _

_Mycroft stiffened in disbelief, and I realised I had never seen such a state encompass him. _

"_Nothing is here for you, Sherlock. Come home." _

_As the helicopter lifted from the ground, I curled into my seat, pulling matted hair behind my ears. I stared beyond the window, into the emerald below which was ash. And, finally, I sobbed. _

Outside, the cars whirred.

Inside, the world was frozen.

Sherlock swallowed, distant words emerging like remnants of voice was thick, distant. "Molly, you insist on examining me like a corpse, dissecting my psychology so you may understand… But it is a selfish endeavour. Solitude protects me. My _past _protects me. Don't interfere with what doesn't belong to you."

Beneath the steel was a melancholy sound, muffled as if surrounded in deep water... The sort only brought on by crushing heartache-

"Sherlock…" Molly stopped, at a loss. "I shouldn't have pressed. I'm sorry."

At his silence, and her rising panic, she placed her hand on his arm. Molly didn't look up, the turmoil- the guilt, the fear, and the empathy freezing her, "Just, please… Understand my curiosity is born out of care. Though you hate to mention your recent relapse, it terrifies us. I need to make sure your solitude is a content one. If your solitude grounds you, we will protect it."

Molly prepared herself for the deduction that would leave her choked and her words crushed. Even though it would hurt, Molly would tell herself he'd taken it in somewhere in his brilliant mind, and that he'd acknowledge it in times of desperation.

She stilled, undulating silence building.

Broken by a calloused palm bending up and landing on her own.

Sherlock didn't look at her, just eased her hand away in silence. There was no harsh retort. The gesture was _gentle_.

"We are of similar minds, I often think," He spoke, baritone dense, "You reach for the unreachable as much as I do."

Molly let out a soft breath, ignoring the pang of his word _unreachable _caused.

"You are my… Friend." He continued, "Please don't confuse my resistance with a lack of trust. Your companionship is welcome. That line of inquiry, however, is not to be followed." A beat. "Respect that."

"…Okay."

Sherlock stared ahead, forcefully aware of her presence. The one which exhibited care, that though curious, wouldn't force him. The one which was eager to protect the solitude he cherished.

Perhaps she marvelled in solitude too.

* * *

**Hampton Court Palace**

White snow shimmered upon the green and danced upon the red. In London, the snow had melted. But away from the city, a white dusting still covered the ground. The red pillars of aristocracy beckoned them closer, elusive yet beautiful.

Silence followed Detective and Pathologist as they were shown into Castle grounds, but it was amicable. Their harsh words were forgotten.

Neither of them was the type to bring sentiment into the realms of a case.

_Luke wasn't right. _

The words the drummer had said span in Sherlock's head like a mantra.

Sherlock's stomach twisted with intrigue, theorising what events would meet them within the Castle. The complex stood as bold and the British resolve. How many scandalous affairs had ripped through aristocratic families within these walls? How many plots were laid against kings? If Sherlock were to be a fly on the wall to inspect the crimes of history, here he would land.

Glancing aside him, he observed Molly sat straight, brown eyes wide in wonder. Her lips were slightly parted, the cold coloured the tops of her cheeks.

She was proving more mysterious than the Castle itself.

_Another irrelevant thought. Focus. _

"Tonight, we are standing in as two business owners from a company called SidCo. We manufacture shoelaces in Northern Ireland-"

"I can't do an Irish accent-"

"No, but I can," Sherlock replied, in a thick Irish drawl.

Molly stared.

"You can have moved from the Midlands at age fourteen lass, alright?"

"…Alright."

Back to his British bravado, Sherlock continued. "Our job is simply to attend and observe. We shall locate Miss O'Brien under the guise of networking. We shall be interested in expanding the marketing of our company. Hopefully, deduction alone will provide some conclusion about Luke Yate's murder, but if not, we shall continue to investigate."

Molly bit her lip. It was exhilarating being at Sherlock's side, but she was truly starting to wonder why he needed her there. They'd hardly fit in amongst the- "Wait, wait- Sherlock. What about our dress?"

"What of it?"

"We'll stick out like sore thumbs here. You said it's a Tudor themed event… But, we- We're not…"

Then, Sherlock parked the car, turning off the ignition smartly. He pivoted, placating Molly with a singular look that she'd learned very well over the years both caused excitement and dread.

The _I have a plan _look.

"Shall we?"

He swept from the car.

"Shall we what?" Molly called as his door shut. The pathologist huffed and stepped out of her own door. The wind attacked her hair immediately.

"Hold these," Sherlock instructed, tossing her the car keys.

The detective hoisted open the boot of the car and stood as proud as a king over a cavalry.

Molly's jaw dropped.

Beneath them, lay a bed of fabric. Reds, greens, and gold. Diamonds, lace, and pearls-

"…Where did you get _those?" _

"I have my contacts." With vigour, the detective hoisted the clothing into his arms. There was so much of it, it covered his whole chest and forearm. He strode away, and Molly frantically closed and locked the car.

A plethora of question began and-

"Don't worry about the fit," Sherlock boomed "I know your measurements."

Molly stopped, stunned, then scrambled after him.

* * *

Usually, Detective and Pathologist were witnessed in the mortuary. That was their habitat of choice. A white lab coat on top of bright jumpers donned Molly's shoulders, whereas Sherlock stood proudly in a Belstaff coat, the essence of sophistication.

It couldn't have been more of an antithesis of their current predicament.

In a dark, a small room, three candles glowed upon brass candelabra. A tiny window looked out onto the world, blue, as the sun began its descent. An ageing mirror stood against one wall.

In the centre stood Molly Hooper in a gown of russet red. A wired skirt added three inches to her hips, yet her waist never appeared skinnier. A v-shaped bodice framed her, cutting off at her chest.

A gown had been laid across her shoulders, topping the already strenuous number of layers she wore adorned in golden flowers and small pearls stitched into the hemline. Laces hung loosely around her, ready to be tied to secure the garment to her chest – _Who on earth puts bodice fastenings on the front?_ It beguiled her that women once _voluntarily _dressed like this. An elderly woman who worked at the castle had dressed her thus far- It wasn't a one-woman job- Upon reaching this stage, the woman had announced that she'd forgotten some much-needed pins claiming, 'Age catches up with us all, dearie', and had left to go find them.

Alone in a castle of kings, dressed like a Queen, Molly had never felt further from the morgue.

"Are you _still_ not decent?"

Sherlock was leaning against the stone doorframe, watching her with aloof amusement.

Frantically, Molly grasped at the loose garments on her chest, but there was no need. She had at least two layers on already.

She looked up to her companion.

The first thing she noticed was the _monstrosity_ of a hat, covering his dark curls from view. A dark green cone shape blossomed, sporting a long peacock feather.

Helplessly, she grinned. "Makes a change from Westwood."

"It still triumphs over your jumpers."

The pathologist pinched her brow. "I look _ridiculous." _

"It's a matter of historical accuracy-"

"Sod historical accuracy! I can't move!" She wiggled her hips to accentuate her point.

"I doubt the average woman in the Sixteenth Century commonly assisted criminal investigations, Molly."

Molly giggled and continued her exploration. Her brows raised as she saw white tights held firmly against Sherlock's legs, held in place by a codpiece. A doublet of emerald green covered his upper body, detailed in golden buttons, accompanied by breeches of the same shade. A black velvet cape stood on his broad shoulders.

Suddenly, Sherlock moved towards her. She thought he was venturing conversation, but her content evolved into panic as he reached for her chest, "S-Sherlock- What are you-"

Sherlock frowned, like it was obvious. "I'm tying this for you."

"Well, _thanks- _But I don't- I need _pins._"

"Molly, I have a crime to solve. The quicker you are ready to work, the better. Our efficiency at stake... This can easily be tied without. Let me."

Molly had a thousand reasons to send him away. Unable to voice any from the plethora, her eyes fluttered shut, and she turned her head to the side.

Achingly slow, he threaded a piece of lace through its hole and pulled the material together.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, focused on the task at hand. He ignored the crimson blossoming on Molly's cheeks, the pulse flickering on her neck.

_My pulse throbbed against my neck. There was no turning back. I sourced what sediments I understood and ground them with my bare hands and the last of my drinking water. I sculpted a few sparse leaves into a tool and retraced my steps. _

_I found them lost in thought. _

_The pressure of our venture was starting to impede on my every footstep, on my every gaze. _

_Without a word, I knelt, procuring the concoction I had made._

_When they saw, an expression of pure, complete gratitude stunned me. _

_I smiled._

"Keep still," Sherlock instructed, brought out of his reverie as Molly twisted.

This wasn't them, Molly thought, _this is absurd._

Feeling his deft fingers pulling fabric over her chest with such closeness she could almost feel his breath on her skin was simply put, a pantomime. Molly glanced across to the old mirror. Sherlock working the fastenings of her bodice with the same concentration he approached crime scenes. It sent lust directly into her veins and held her captive. Helplessly, she wondered what data he discovered, as he fastened the fabric against the swell of her-

_Slow down._

Suddenly, she was aware of the glow of the candle, the multitude of colours in his eyes- far more than just blue- the softness of his lips, a small scar visible just underneath his jaw bone-

_Oh God, _Molly took a deep breath, _I'm done for. _

_A_nticipation of the impossible danced against her skin until she felt she was glowing.

Sherlock took a step back.

His expression was of clear observation, free from emotional entanglement that threatened to outdo her there and then.

Their eyes met, brown against blue.

Sherlock offered his arm. "Let's go investigate."

Molly frantically sought words, and the ones that formed were the least stately ones imaginable. "B-be sure not to trip over your codpiece on the way out."

"Charming, Molly."

* * *

Dresses swirled.

Goblets were raised.

Laughter burst into the air, a melodic sound.

Food lay bounden across long tables. Swans the centrepiece of the colourful delights. Fresh fragrances filled the air- spices of centuries past.

Women adorned in pearls and ruffs twirled. Gentlemen watched them hopefully, stepping alongside them in doublets and tights.

Hands were offered, flirtatious smiles exchanged.

'_Pastime with good company, I love and shall unto I die…' _

A small chamber ensemble played to the crowd, using many instruments that Molly didn't know the name to. Four singers stood at the forefront singing intimately to each other. Historical accuracy was dissuaded by the small microphones and amplifiers around them.

A smartphone flashed.

'_For my pastance. Hunt, song, and dance. My heart is set…'_

More wine was poured.

'…_For idleness is chief mistress of vices all…'_

Businessman Ishaan Bansal sat, master of the feast, in a gown of thick purple, adorning a turban where there should have been a feathered hat. Watching his work colleagues dance as courtiers filled him with rarefied glee. Here, he could truly be the King of an empire.

'_The best ensue, the worst eschew, my mind shall be: virtue to use, vice to refuse, shall I use me!" _

With a final chord that resonated right into the wooden floors, the song ended. The crowd cheered, and Mr Bansal bowed his head.

From the edge of the crowd, Sherlock Holmes applauded enthusiastically, vibrant in character. By his side, Molly tapped her palms together timidly.

Molly admired Sherlock, blazing in emerald green, eyes glowing with golds and rich blues, and was amazed. The solitary man appeared entwined with the scene around him. Not for the first time over their acquaintance, Molly wondered if he truly was a man out of his time.

Thick tapestries decorated the walls, adorned with images of the biblical prophet Abraham. Huge wooden beams reached across the ceiling, daunting and formidable.

Sherlock lowered behind her, murmuring, "If you think this is over the top you should see my mother's Christmas dinners."

Helplessly, Molly laughed.

"Look here," Sherlock instructed, and Molly did. He pointed to the wooden screen at the end of the hall. "See the inscriptions, 'A' and 'H'?"

Molly nodded.

"That's to celebrate Henry and Anne Boleyn's impending marriage after his divorce from Katherine of Aragon. Of course, the sentiment was a ridiculous pursuit and she ended up with her head chopped off."

Molly smirked, but then a sickening figure caught her eye, then another- Strange doll-like heads staring down at them- "What's-"

"Eavesdroppers." Sherlock explained, "Warnings to courtiers, that everything is being watched at court."

"Would be helpful for our investigation." Molly joked.

"Focus, Molly."

Sherlock didn't laugh, though Molly saw his cheek twitch.

"Isn't it interesting," Sherlock observed. "This music is farthest from what the Three Crows provide. This music was composed by Henry VIII himself."

"Well," Molly reasoned, "Obviously the booking was cancelled after Luke's death-"

"Wrong. There's been no correspondence since the twenty-ninth. The Three Crows were never intending to perform."

The pathologist looked at him, sensing the cogs turning, and wished she had the capability to understand the world as he did. "…If they weren't here to perform, then what were they meant to be here for?"

Sherlock switched from man to detective. From Sherlock to _Sherlock Holmes. _He sniffed, straightened, and went into action. "Let's find out."

He disappeared into the crowds.

Molly reached out to call after him, but there was no use. Another song commenced.

On her own, Molly let out a nervous breath she hadn't realised she was holding. As a waiter sauntered past, Molly took a goblet of wine, took a sip- and hummed in contentment. Then she put it on the table, reminding herself Sherlock needed all her faculties in order.

"Not drinking?"

Molly jumped at the unfamiliar voice. She turned and was met under the friendly gaze of an Asian man; of a similar age, dressed to the nines in deep blue cloth.

"I picked up the red by mistake." Molly giggled.

"Least it's better than the mead." He joked, then offered a hand. "Reo Takahashi. I suppose we're meant to tell each other what we do, but I'm just a plus one."

"Claire." Molly smiled, shaking his hand. "Who did you come with?"

"Girlfriend." He grinned a handsome smile, "Would you like to watch the dancers?"

"There are dancers?"

"Bottom end of the hall, I'll show you!"

With a small gesture, he led her down the room. As he did, Molly glanced around for Sherlock, desperate to see what he was up to- what _she _could do to assist, when everything ground to a halt.

Amongst the crowd, an ensemble of dancers was reenacting the dance routines of Tudor Court. Their gowns were beautiful, more so than her own. The whole scene seemed to glitter with majesty.

And in the middle of it, was Sherlock Holmes.

He was dancing with a woman with blonde hair. A black and silver dress graced her effortlessly. They moved in synchronisation with seemingly small ornamentations. Molly's heart leapt to her chest, and she was _floored._

Sherlock Holmes was beautiful.

His expression was contrite, chiselled, and charming. His movements were graceful, grounded, and strong. When he and the woman met in near proximity, they spoke, though always drifted away a moment after.

John had once called Sherlock a chameleon, and Molly finally understood. No one would associate this person with storming into morgues demanding toes for experimentation.

"That's my girlfriend." Reo chimed in, reminding Molly she wasn't alone.

"Who?"

"The blonde woman. Isn't she gorgeous? She works in admin here. It's pretty new, but God- I'm smitten."

Molly's heart warmed at how taken he was. She smiled at his adoration, before letting her eyes drop-

_Wait._

Upon Reo's chest, laid a broach.

A silver design, newly polished.

A crow, wearing a crown of iris flowers.

_Molly took a steady breath. She looked down upon Luke Yates and prepared to work. However, the memories of Jake- the guitarist who'd loved him- plagued continuously. It was hard to let the sound of his cries go. Molly gripped the edge of the slab with her gloved hands, drawn to the tattoo of the crowned crow on the young man's arm. "Just so you're aware, between me and you-" She whispered, "You were so very loved. I'm sorry this happened to you."_

It was the same.

A dark sensation crept up through her toes, into her legs and finally gripped onto her lungs. Sherlock was right. Something deeper was going on. The Three Crows weren't meant to perform that night. But they were invited for _something else._

"A dance, m'Lady?"

Molly gasped, blinking rapidly.

Sherlock stood opposite her, offering his arm.

Completely lost, she took it. She couldn't find words to protest.

Molly was desperate to tell him, desperate to say anything- But there were too many people. Sherlock's eyes commanded her to focus, clearly registering her distress.

They stood opposite her, in the castle of king's past.

Maintaining stern eye contact, he bowed.

Heart thundering, she copied the women around her, and curtseyed.

Suddenly, he moved flush against her, stealing her air. "Follow my steps. Don't fall."

And follow, she did.

At the first strum of a lute, Sherlock took Molly's hand in her own. Then, as a drum was hit, he stepped, and bounced, alternating the leading foot. Molly stumbled, but he gripped her hand tighter, blue irises beams of instruction. On the fifth step, she made the same movement of him without tripping. And she swore he smiled in approval. Flushing, she was wholly unprepared for-

Large hands grasped her waist, and he pivoted, hoisting her off the ground. It took all her willpower not to squeal- Then it happened again, and again. And only then did she realise upon every lift his thigh raised to support her.

It took three more complete repetitions for her senses to regain clarity. It seemed like an eternity, moving together in the steps of history. Here, she could enjoy his closeness, could bathe in his gaze and the strength of his hold. Molly smiled at him, and thought just the corner of his lips raised, it was enough. His eye contact lit every candle in her soul.

Once the steps had become attainable, he began to talk. His words formal, strictly about the case.

It was a cutting moment of reality.

"That was Evangeline O'Reilly." Kick. "She claimed this ensemble, the Tallis players-" Kick. "-Were the only ones ever booked for tonight."

He held her waist.

Molly quickly began to expostulate her findings, unable to test her eyes away. "That man was her boyfriend." Lift, and turn. "-He had a broach that matched the Three Crow's Tattoos-" Lift and turn.

They stepped away, bowed, and returned.

Sherlock held her palm once more, bringing her even closer. "Are you sure?"

Suddenly, she was aware they weren't moving. He held her there, discerning her, as if the world's orbit depended on her answer.

"...I'm sure."

"They're going. We need to follow."

Molly gasped as he pulled her through the crowds.

They left the hall, on the path of the young couple moving further away. Never too close, but never too far.

He never let go.

They rounded a corner, and-

"Oomph!"

Sherlock pressed her against the wall.

Air left her.

The detective stepped away, peering around. Muffled voices and the nearby party echoed in their ears. Breathlessly, Molly stood beside his shoulder, straining her ears to hear.

"_Have you got it?"_

"_Yes. Where are we keeping it?"_

"_Down there."_

"_God, it looks haunted!"_

"_It's the only place that isn't rife with security cameras. Go-"_

"_Reo-"_

"_Evangeline. You know what to do."_

There was a pause, the sound kissing, and then footsteps. A few moments later, Reo sauntered past them, straightening out his doublet.

Sherlock waited exactly eleven seconds before stepping into action. There were no words spoken, there didn't need to be. Mystery called them like a siren to the sea.

Together, Detective and Pathologist stepped further into the Castle, to where Evangeline was last heard.

It was a dark corridor, lit only by candlelight. A draft blew, raising goosebumps on Molly's skin.

She wasn't there anymore.

"Where's she gone?" Sherlock muttered, navigating with his hands, mind rapidly deducing.

Then, Molly saw it.

"Sherlock!"

Wordlessly, Molly reached out. A huge tapestry was spread out across the wall, detailing knights in battle. She grasped the edge, thick with dust, and drew it to the side.

Suddenly, detective and pathologist were staring down a pitch-black tunnel, leading into the unknown.

For a moment, they were lost to the silence of mystery.

Sherlock procured a torch from his breast cloth, earning a curious look from Molly.

"For emergencies." He clarified.

"Are we really going down there?"

"Obviously." His next words sent a shiver coursing down her spine, and excitement flaring in her blood. "Come on, Doctor Hooper. Watch your step in the dark."

Detective and Pathologist descended into darkness.

The tapestry fell closed behind them.

* * *

**Well, what do you all think lurks down below? I cannot wait to hear your thoughts!**

**THE MUSIC AND DANCE**

**The song featured was Henry VIII's "Pastime With Good Company", and also when writing I imagined music such as "Tandenarken", "Though Sum Saith That Yough Ruylth Me", "En Vray Amour" (All compositions attributed to Henry VIII). The dance, however, is not by him. Though it was often performed to many Galliards, "La Volta" (William Byrd) is a well-documented piece for this routine. If you google it, it's famously the most risque dance at Tudor court- Though by our standard, it's very formal. Footage of the steps can be found online (though watch out for dramatised films as they're often inaccurate!) :-)**

**Really hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Your feedback, as always, would be amazing. Thanks for the ongoing support!  
See you at the next one!**


	4. Onwards They Went

**Greetings folks! Hope you're all well. Thank you so much for all your support. You truly do make this hobby worthwhile. **

**Shall we see where darkness takes our Detective and Pathologist? **

**Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs to those who carry the copyright of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

_"Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colours, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night." ~ Rainer Rilke_

* * *

_Our eyes widened in awe. Blues, golds, and silvers perforated our vision. Staring upwards to the soaring ceiling, breath left me. _

_Surrounded by mountains, I had decided society was a lost cause. But not here, no- here was a place of magnificence. _

_I fell to my knees, my palms seeking gravity on the marble floors. I thought of home._

_Their head press against my shoulder. "Thank you for saving me." _

_I craned my eyes and lost myself in emerald. _

"..._Let your brother know you're still alive. Our work isn't over yet."_

"_He's going to be entirely disappointed in me. He'll insist I leave you. That you're a liability." _

"_In the mountains, you were my only protection. And I yours. Our survival depends on each other. Tell him that." _

The darkness invited them with beckoning hands.

_Focus, Sherlock._

Onwards they went.

_The past is irrelevant now._

Detective and Pathologist.

They descended into history.

Since being a boy, darkness had always intrigued Sherlock. Darkness equated to mystery and primal behaviour. Thus, the average human associated lack of sunlight with monsters, demons, and ghosts. For many people, this was a negative thought. But not for him. No- In the darkness, his deductions achieved finer clarity. Inhibitions were heightened, and thus reaping information was easier.

Darkness was a pathway to beauty in thought, judgement, and action.

Sherlock felt Molly at his side, her irritation obvious. Her clothes were limiting her movement, her ribcage unable to expand to its full volume. Continuously, her small hands gripped at the russet material that consumed her. Her eyes strained to find a path as her feet were hidden. However, her expression was steadfast, intrigued, curious, _determined_.

It almost made Sherlock smile.

"I thought secret passages were just in films." Whispered Molly.

_A method of distraction._

"For a palace with carved eavesdroppers on the ceiling, you're truly surprised about the existence of secret passages?"

Sherlock glanced at her. The darkness eclipsed her features in shadows he hadn't seen before. For a split second, he found the collage interesting. As if he was looking at a woman he had yet to meet.

She pouted, "We should have called the police-"

"I hardly think _that's_ necessary."

"-We shouldn't go into this alone. Evangeline O'Brien could be _anywhere." _Hissed Molly, "She could have masterminded Luke Yates' murder."

"And she may not have. All we know categorically is that she lied about the Three Crows purpose for being here. It's highly likely that answers lay down here, in whatever it is she intends to leave behind." Then, he falsified a smile. "Also, we're not alone. We have each other. Now _concentrate_."

Silent agreement achieved, they continued onwards.

Biting her lip, Molly chastised herself. It was hard to remain clear of distraction with the detective aside her. The shadows wore him like armour. His angular cheekbones framed the way for their exploration. His eyes, seemingly all-seeing, discerned secrets in the gloom. It beguiled her that he didn't realise how captivating he was.

Despite the intrigue of the case, Sherlock was entirely aware of Molly stepping in the crescent of his shadow. The occasional golden emblem on her red dress glittered under his torchlight, beckoning his peripheral vision. However, it wasn't that that stole distinction in his thought processes. Rather, it was her skin. It appeared cerebral, glowing, a mist amidst the thriving colours of his theories. Her chest, rising and falling, becoming the tempo his feet replicated. It was her eyes, intrinsically waltzing between invasive and vulnerable.

She was a siren to clarity in russet silk.

Suddenly, he heard himself speaking.

_Are you distracted, brother mine?_

"Judging by the temperature, smell, and air density, I don't think many people have been here since 1859."

"You can't be_ that_ sure of that, not even you."

Sherlock hummed. "If only one could confer with ghosts to support my statement."

"This castle _is_ meant to be haunted."

"'Meant' being the operative word."

Some time passed as the pair navigated their way through the passage noiselessly. What was a small corridor opened into a wide path, occasionally branching into several routes leading off into the unknown.

Eventually, Sherlock's baritone emerged. "Molly. We've been in this labyrinth eleven minutes already and I'd really appreciate it if you didn't drag your feet. Time is of the essence."

"Trying not to fall and break my leg is also of the essence."

"If you examine the probability of your clothing to the perimeter-"

"I know that you don't give a toss about as much as getting shot at or jumping off buildings, but I would much rather prefer if you didn't-"

It happened faster than a flicker.

A large hand secured over Molly's mouth.

She was pushed against the wall.

The torch fell.

They were plunged into darkness.

Molly's first instinct was flight. She pulled but was held. Her conscious kicked in. Her eyes opened, huge brown orbs against black, and acquiesced the person against her.

Her racing heart began to sprint.

When Sherlock had tied her gown, she had glowed with anticipation. As they had danced, his gaze had lit every candle in her soul. Against him in darkness, she shone brighter than winter sun.

Honestly, she couldn't fathom how he wasn't blinded by the light.

One strong arm secured her waist, his chest against hers. His other hand-maintained position over her lips. His head was dipped, forehead almost brushing against her own, light blue eyes instructing her into silence.

Slowly, his palm over her mouth unravelled, and a singular finger pressed against her lips.

"_Shhh..." _

Every fibre of her skinned raised.

Out of the silence, a set of footsteps echoed.

Paper was ripped, echoing like nails on a distant chalkboard.

_Whatever Evangeline O'Brien is leaving behind, it is no longer in one piece. _

It ripped four- _five, _times. Then, the footsteps began to retreat. Whatever task it had been, was a simple one. However, Molly knew the simplest of actions could deign the biggest fates.

Mind pulsating with theory, her gaze didn't remove itself from Sherlock. Molly knew in his mind a masquerade was thriving, providing him with solutions to the answers tormenting the air.

The steps drew closer.

Sherlock stopped breathing.

Evangeline O'Brien began to sing.

Molly stopped breathing too.

"_Oh deathe! Rock me asleep, bring me to quiet rest; let pass my weary guiltless ghost out of my careful breast…"_

The softest of voices echoed, that though singing about death seemed joyful. Childlike. Innocent. As though the ghosts of history had made their own choir out of dust.

Helplessly, Molly glanced into the corridor-

Sherlock's spare hand grasped her jaw. It tilted her head towards him.

_Don't look. Focus. _His face commanded. _Don't sacrifice our cover._

The voice edged nearer.

A single breath mingled between them.

Then, their eyes locked.

"_Tole on the passing bell, ringe out the doleful knell…"_

In a moment, there was nothing.

There was just Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper.

Time floated above them, teasing, taunting as if it had grabbed reason by the lapels and ran for the horizon.

"_Let the sound of my deathe tell for I must dye…"_

Sherlock's eyes fluttered, just for a moment.

Orbit shifted beneath their feet.

It was tangible. Glorious. Something stole their air and suddenly, for the first time in years- Molly felt her energy- her want, breathe into him.

She saw _everything. _His pupils dilated, his arms slacked, a single line creased in between his brows. _A realisation._ Simultaneously, his eyes mapped out her features, desperate to discern and learn. _A dilemma. _Then, they dipped, lingering on her lips a moment too long, beckoning for an answer to an internal plight. _A question. _

"_My pains who can express? Alas! They are so strong…" _

Molly almost whimpered under the realisation that she was thinking like Sherlock Holmes. He was seeping into her bloodstream, into her every cell, with nothing but his eyes upon her.

His gaze raised back to her. A tension formed in his grip. _A surprise. _Then, something changed. A flicker across his jaw. A silent, quivering breath, as if he couldn't believe his own thoughts. _Confusion._

"_My dolor will not suffer strength my life for to prolong…"_

Then, he shifted in the silence, inviting emptiness. He was staring through her like she was glass. Molly wondered if the colours in his eyes were no longer meant for her at all.

Suddenly, the footsteps ran.

Sherlock moved.

Molly stumbled, frantically gulping in all the oxygen she could muster, chest against her bodice. Reality swarmed at her, howling, laughing, biting at her with cold-

Sherlock grasped her arm. His wild eyes scoured her, examining every-

"_Habibi_, are you alright?"

Molly's breath jammed. She pulled away. "…Ha- what?"

The expression she received was one she could never forget. The rise of his brows, the hardening of his jaw, his sharp jolt away from her, all at once. The shadows engulfed him, the emerald green doublet trapping him, like a coffin cloth.

His look was pain.

Shame.

E_rror. _

But the moment passed.

Sherlock Holmes pivoted and went to work.

Molly fumbled, trembling as she reached out for the torch on the ground. A weight thrust itself upon her- embarrassment- but why? Why did she feel in that moment she had glanced upon the pages of the novel that became him, to a chapter unheard, to words unspoken-

_Habibi. _

_What is that word? A name?_ Regardless, he'd called her that out of pure visceral instinct. The same instinct that had- The torch flicked to life, automatically focusing on Sherlock's face. His eyes were wide, lips parted, flushed.

Devastated.

He snatched the torch off her before she even had a moment to process it.

Desperately, Molly sought words, yet all she found was a plea. "Sherlock."

"Are you okay?" He demanded again, waving the torch over her face.

She winced at the light, "Y-Yes. I'm fine. What was that?"

_Habibi? The singing? The way you pinned me with your eyes, that dropped to my lips and rendered me- _

"A message. Miss O'Brien knew we were here." The detective stated, revoked of emotion. He swung past her, shining his torch down the corridor the woman had just walked down.

Then, he was running.

Molly stared for a full second, then grabbed her skirts, and chased after him.

Sherlock knelt on the ground, raising the torch above his head with one hand. In a dramatic gesture, he pulled off his hat and tossed it aside.

By his knees, was a small pile of paper. Withered, aged, falling apart.

"What is that?" Molly asked breathlessly.

Sherlock grasped one piece between two fingertips and drew upright. He marvelled it, jaw parting, eyes narrowing then widening in awe. "It's music."

"Music?"

"Luke wasn't right." Sherlock echoed, "That's what Lewis Brenner said. Why would Evangeline O'Brien leave this music here? For us? What's the significance? Unless…"

He grasped at the paper. Elegant musical staves had been drawn across the edges, a different small set of notes on each one. The script angular, like the brushstrokes that had formed the crows on the band's tattoos. The notes were devoid of key signature, time signature, or defining features. It was merely a guideline. A guideline, that had led to the untimely murder of a young man. Had he played this music on New Year's Eve? Had his hand slipped from the fret, had he overextended a rest, had he missed a beat-

"This music is evidence. We were right Molly, there is far more to this."

His thumb traced a melody, and his brows lowered as the ink spread onto his skin.

…On aged paper, the melody was new.

A new song.

A new guideline.

_A new victim. _

Energy transferred from the darkness, configuring fire behind his eyes. The air fell out beneath him.

_I screamed and screamed and screamed- Until my body collapsed from exhaustion. London was gone. The mountains were gone. Sherlock Holmes was gone. I was a carcass where a man should have been. Deductions were false promises, knowledge was bitter poison. Oxygen pained me. My lungs were laced with the obsolete, thick tar clogged my airways. The painful emptiness tore my every atom into oblivion. _

_I searched for emerald but found nothing._

_I realised I hated the silence. _

_It had been easier when I'd been screaming. _

"…Sherlock?" Molly asked, voice wavering between concern and fear, "What's going on?"

The detective forced air into his lungs, drinking colour back into his bloodstream. He looked to Molly, desperate for solace- desperate for her eyes to-

_Focus! _

He gulped.

"There's going to be another murder. This was a _diversion_. This was to get us away from the Great Hall."

The Detective tossed the torch to Molly.

"Why-"

A scream pierced the air from the world above.

The cry was followed by a chatter, more screams, and thundering footsteps-

Another pawn moved forward on the chessboard.

"Sherlock." Molly gasped.

A thousand colours flashed in Sherlock's vision- memories pounding, a mass of timpani's in an orchestra. He leapt to his feet, grasping the manuscript and securing the pieces within his breaches. He turned to his pathologist, a beam of energy.

"Can you run?"

"I can try."

Sherlock grasped Molly's hand.

"Don't drag your feet."

* * *

The darkness burst into gold.

Detective and Pathologist raced into the Great Hall. The hall was reduced to cacophony. Guests were panicking, staff were shouting.

In the centre stood Ishaan Bansal, gripping a goblet encased in emeralds, face torn in utter horror. The King watched his kingdom dissolve into factions before his very eyes.

At the end of the hall, where a music ensemble had played, now stood a scene of chaos. Instruments from lutes to viols lay abandoned on the ground. A middle-aged woman sprawled amongst them, convulsing, body practically lifting from the ground at the force of it.

_They were too late._

"I'm a Doctor! Let me through!" Molly shouted, pushing through the crowd. Immediately, she was at the woman's head, barking instructions to the spectators around her on how to help. Her earlier worry on how to kneel in the skirts simply forgotten. All the training from medical school before she specialised in pathology returning instantly.

Sherlock had never seen her possess such energy.

Then in his peripheral, a spectre moved.

Except it wasn't a spectre at all.

It was Evangeline O'Brien.

_Target acquired. _

The Detective rocketed to a historically inaccurate knight armour on display. With a majestic pull, he withdrew a sword from the figure's helm. He span, and acquiesced the criminal.

Their gazes met.

He swore she smiled.

With animalistic ferocity, the chase began. Sherlock roared at people nearby to call the police. Evangeline O'Brien raced across the hall, thick skirts bunched in her hands, not turning.

Sherlock stalked after her, driven only by the need for justice.

The blonde woman reached the king's table, slammed a palm down, and swept over it.

She gripped the table in both her hands. Her boyfriend- Reo- manifested at her side- Together, they pushed, and the table tipped.

Clash's, bangs, and smashes filled the air. Goblets rolled across the floor, wine stained antique floorboards, and candles fell onto the cotton table cloth, setting it aflame.

Sherlock's found another way around and chased them into the palace.

They dove through corridors, on an endless game of cat and mouse. Where Sherlock felt he was in a maze, the couple understood every single crevice. Before he could comprehend it, he was charging towards an exit. Visitors guidebooks, gifts, and merchandise laid upon every surface. They thrust open the exit door. Cold air sucked through the opening. But Sherlock pushed through. He burst into the night and charged after them across snow.

The couple were jumping into a car- _Mercedes, Black, A200D, registration- _The car screeched as the wheels- _ LL42 MJER Male owner brought-_ contacted the snow, and in moments_\- four months ago-_ and in moments, they were gone.

The detective halted in the snow, chest heaving, dressed in emerald doublet and tights, and felt answers vanishing with every rotation of the wheels. His breath expelled in tiny ice clouds in front of his eyes. Letting out a grunt of frustration, he thrust his head to the sky, greeted by a full moon on his cheeks.

_I fought the jesters in my chest which were screaming in fear. I had to reassure them. Reassurance meant clarity. Reassurance meant safety. "Habibi, focus-"_

_They crumbled, "They're going to kill us!"_

_I willed down the earthquake of terror threatening to bring us both to the ground. _

"_I won't let that happen. I promise." _

Sherlock's hands flew to his temples, willing the images away, and yet they morphed. Grotesque images flourished, evolving, bones forming into-

"_I know where to find people that hate her." The shark leered, "I know where they live. I know their phone numbers."_

_Magnussen was humiliating John._

_My best friend John. My ally John. My family John. No one would take Mary. No one would take John. No one would take their child._

_Magnussen's empty eyes flicked to mine. His thin lips raised in a calculated sneer as if he knew what I was about to do. Maybe he did. But it was irrelevant. At that moment, I silently thanked everything that he didn't know about them. _

_The one pressure point he missed._

_It was their memory that gave me the strength to do what was right. _

_Magnussen wasn't going to live another day. _

Blue shot across Sherlock's vision, followed by the wail of sirens. He sucked in consciousness, forcing his breathing to maintain a level below panic.

The detective looked up to the moon and decided he might be going insane.

* * *

"So, in conclusion, you almost burnt down an English treasure tonight," John stated, in near amusement. In his hand, he was watching a video posted on Twitter, of Sherlock in Tudor dress pulling a sword from a model knight's helm. It was going viral by the minute.

"The fire only _singed_ the floor, and _one_ tapestry. The civilians stopped it getting out of hand."

Mary raised her gaze from her stomach, where her arm was looped protectively. "Aren't those tapestries worth _million_s?"

"You had one hell of a night, mate."

Mary raised an intrigued brow, "And the police didn't catch them? Evangeline and… And-"

"Reo." Molly supplied.

"No, they proved as useless as usual. They got away." Sherlock berated with a sigh, "For now."

"You don't sound confident?" Mary furthered.

"It's difficult to be confident when the police's efficiency is involved."

John chuckled, Mary giggled, and Molly shot him a dark look.

The group of friends Mrs Hudson had once horrendously labelled _The Baker Street Band_ were all spread out across 221Bs living room. The Watson's original plan just to pop in had turned on its head when the case Sherlock and Molly were on had come to light. An hour later, there they were, boxes from the local chip shop spread amongst them. The consulting detective sat in his chair, a piece of manuscript from the palace balancing between his fingers. His tight-clad legs outstretched onto the small table with such buoyancy one would suppose he wore them every day. His food remained untouched.

Opposite him, John had assumed his resident seat. Often, his eyes slipped to his wife, checking on her. Mary herself was slouched upon the settee, becoming more tired by the second. And by her side, Molly perched on the end clearly having no idea on how to sit properly in such a monstrous garment.

Seeing Molly, surrounded by endless fabric with a polystyrene box of chips almost amused him.

The fire roared in between them.

"We were too late, in the end," Sherlock explained, "The woman died. She was a period flute player. We learned her name was Katherine."

"Shit, I'm sorry Molly." John added after a beat, "It's so awful after you try to save them."

The pathologist's lips upturned into a sad sort of smile, and Mary placed a hand on her leg.

"It's fine, honest... There wasn't anything I could have done, really."

"Katherine was murdered with poison spread across the flute's mouthpiece." Sherlock continued, "After her death, we immediately took samples which are currently undergoing analysis at Bart's. The toxicology results won't be in until the morning, at least, so we came back here."

John tossed a chip into his mouth. "They didn't use poison on the boy, the bassist, did they?"

Sherlock huffed. "No, John. I already explained this. Luke Yates was stabbed by his instrument. Is it impending fatherhood that's making your short-term memory a _lot_ shorter?"

"Oi," The doctor chided, "_Anyway, _so… What do you both think this is? Two musicians- completely unrelated- dead in a week. Scraps of music are abandoned in secret passages, which seemingly mark the victims, and the two people you can only consider to be suspects escape in a car driven by someone you don't know. This is, well-"

"It's big." Sherlock summarised, clasping his hands, "It has the potential to be amazing. This is an _operation_."

"What you need to figure out is if there is a link between victims, a way to premeditate the next attack." Commented Mary.

"Obviously."

John placed down his empty carton and brushed his hands. "Shame I wasn't there. This would have been great material for the blog."

Mary laughed, "Can't you just write up Molly's account? That fans would love it."

"No," Sherlock interrupted, "This is Molly's case. Don't take this away from her."

Molly stared at him, perplexed.

John's head flashed between them as a touch of tension simmered in the air. He breathed in slowly, pursed his lips together, and smiled, "Well… I'm glad you two are working together without murdering one another-"

"There's still time." Molly jibed.

"I didn't realise Molly Hooper had replaced me." he teased.

An incredulous eye fell upon the doctor. "Your wife is surely about to pop, John. Waiting for your offspring makes you out of bounds. Molly Hooper clearly doesn't have any offspring or love life and is henceforth at my disposal."

Molly scowled.

"Well, I'm glad." Summarised John with a chuckle, "Someone has to keep you sane."

"John, isn't it time you return your wife home? Any longer in this flat, and I fear your wife will begin tidying-"

"You're so full of yourself!" Mary defended.

The calculated eye landed on her, "You've stared at my desk in distaste _nine times_ in the last twenty-minutes-"

"It's a tip!"

"It has a _system_, and you're nesting."

"I'll nest you in a minute-"

"Okay children, calm down." John puffed, pushing himself to his feet. He was smiling, though.

Sherlock knew he was silently relieved from the break of domestic routine.

"If it's any constellation, Molly," Mary began as Molly helped her up, "You look gorgeous."

"I've never worn such an _unnecessary_ amount of clothing in my life."

Mary laughed, "Simplicity and productivity overdramatized beauty, that's our Molly. It does suit you in its own way, though." Teasingly, she glanced over to Sherlock. "Can't say the same for him. He looks like a charity gala centrepiece."

John guffawed.

Sherlock glowered.

"Always imagined you as more so the Victorian type." She mused.

"Mm. Quite." Sherlock muttered.

After several horrendous minutes of observing British _farewell pleasantries, _The Watson's were finally almost out of the building. Sherlock was glad for it, not from an entire dislike of their company, but for longing for perfect solitude. It had been a strenuous task to compartmentalise the significant events of the day amongst their chatter. As Molly offered to show them out- despite the flat's staircase proving a mission itself in her wide skirt- Sherlock closed his eyes and began his acquisition of theory from the hours prior.

"Are you sure you don't want to get the taxi with us?" Mary asked Molly as she struggled to get his jumper clad arms through her coat sleeves, at the bottom of the stairs.

"In this?" Molly gestured to herself, "No. I'll be fine. We need to discuss the case. There is no rest where Sherlock is involved."

"Don't I know it." John muttered.

There was a momentary silence, and the trio oscillated.

"Molly," The army doctor began slowly, "Look, I need to know… Is Sherlock alright? It's just, he's been quiet since... Since Magnussen." The name was whispered like a curse. "I think he wants to give me and Mary distance. But though he thinks solidarity is good for him, it isn't. It leads to him overthinking. Getting… Sensitive. I don't- I just-"

"I'm scared about him relapsing, too." Molly responded softly, "Every day."

Mary shuffled, eyes betraying concern. "Is he okay?"

Molly's fingers knotted together, trying to find an answer to the question but failing to. Molly itched to tell them the finer details of the day- well, of the week. From their night at New Year, when at Yates' murder he'd spared a young man's feelings. For his reluctance for her to leave that night. Then to today. From Sherlock's admission that he didn't fight to stay with them after Magnussen. To the fact he'd helped her dress, held her hand in the dark, and almost- Well, just _almost. _Molly didn't know what almost was.

It was his actions that were based on emotion, not rationalism, that baffled her.

"I think he's safe," She explained after a while, "The case… It's grounded him. But… I think the Magnussen ordeal has shaken him. Not obviously, but- It's like he's on a tightrope. God- I can't explain it, well, it's just-" Molly stopped, breathed, and looked at the Watson's directly, "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

Molly's skin flushed, feeling she was imparting something private. "Do either of you know what Habibi means? …Is it a name?"

"Why?" John asked, after a beat.

"Sherlock, he… He called me it today. I wouldn't think anything of it, but he looked so guilty after he had said it... I can't even explain it."

John was still for a long moment. In his mind, scenes of war rushed across his synapses. The sand clogged his throat, the blood of many up to his elbows. The screams of civilians replayed in blistering clarity.

"I don't know." He said.

"I'm probably being silly-"

"No," John interrupted, "Look, Molly. I'm sure everything is fine but, keep an eye on him. You know where we are, too. He is not your responsibility, remember." His hand touched her arm, "We're in this together."

"I know." The pathologist agreed with a small smile.

Shortly after, the Watson's departed into London's frosty air. On the edge of the pavement, Mary Watson stood aside from her husband. He looked stoically out across the street.

"You know exactly what that word meant, John." Mary told him gently, without judgement.

"…Don't you know?" His voice was thick.

"Why, should I?"

John searched his wife with his eyes, then relented. He locked their hands, thumb tracing her knuckles. "...It's Pasto, Arabic. It's not a word we weren't taught in protocol, but in war, it's one I encountered far too often..."

"I don't follow."

"Habibi, it's- er, an endearment. It's not a name." John knitted his brows, "I guess it's the equivalent of me calling you Honey, Darling… My Love? The number of people I heard screaming that, as their loved ones were dying in a war they didn't ask for..."

"Why didn't you tell Molly?"

John pivoted, pressing his other hand upon Mary's abdomen. A flutter greeted his contact, and an empathetic smile played on his lips. "Because Molly loves him. Everyone knows that. …I didn't want her to be let down."

"That's probably for the best."

* * *

Something Molly Hooper had learned in her years as Sherlock Holmes' friend, was to not disturb him when he was in his mind palace unless necessary. A disturbance could cause a fundamental loss of error, he'd once exclaimed. So, as she ascended into the flat to see him sat, eyes closed, hands occasionally gesturing in front of him, Molly settled in for the long haul.

The flat, eclipsed in dusk, was remarkably still. A sleepy husk amidst the lights of London.

Inside Sherlock's mind, however, the serenity was not replicated. The detective wandered through Hampton Court Palace, re-watching the evening as a silent spectator. He was examining for details missed upon first observation. He had relistened to his brief talk with Evangeline O'Brien and found it just as tedious as the first time. She was boring. Perhaps _too_ boring. Careful of giving anything away, so much so it alluded to stupidity.

He stood an elusive sleuth, and watched himself offer his hand to Molly.

It was imperative to watch their interactions to assess any activity missed around him.

As they danced across the hardwood, the space around him grew in colour, from dense browns to rich gold, as if transported from the Tudor palace to the balls of Tsarist Russia. Sherlock's head tilted in intrigue as he admired Molly's footwork, evolving from awkward and unbalanced to almost graceful in minutes, her shock at the lifts turning into enjoyment. And, shockingly, watching himself transform from a teacher to an active participant.

_Strange._

The pair swept past him, the tunes of the early music ensemble being replaced by lavish strings reminiscent of Strauss. A warmth that wasn't present in the palace brushed his skin. A tingle of pleasure span in his stomach.

He frowned.

Despite the pressing matters at hand, Sherlock found his attention gravitating towards the pale column of her neck, the darkness of her eyes, the red of her dress- a similar colour to the scarf she had leant to him days before- It was… Fascinating.

With training, Molly could become a fine dancer, he summarised.

Suddenly, the images shifted. The scene darkened.

Sherlock saw himself pulling Molly against a wall. Suddenly, the grand hall turned into secret passages.

_There could be valuable evidence they'd missed._

Sherlock swallowed, clenching and unclenching his hands. He saw himself and Molly meet eyes, and heard Evangeline O'Brien singing in the distance.

His heart was racing.

He had wanted to protect Molly, that was all. When she'd looked towards the corridor, and he'd moved her jaw towards him, it was to prevent her from becoming a liability. Yet, at that moment, something shifted.

He didn't know what, and_ that_ was abhorrent.

He deduced the scene, words emerging in elegant script: _distracted… dilated pupils… eye contact… heart rate increasing… fear… question... dilemma, protectiveness, appreciation, awe… Want. _

"Don't be absurd!" He chided the air, throwing his arms upright.

_Want?_

A traitorous thing, an innately problematic human thing.

He was indeed a man on the precipice of insanity.

He'd desired her safety, her compliance, and her silence. All of which were acceptable feats on the levels of their friendship. Every action was intended solely for the productivity of the investigation. Her physical responses, suggestive of lust and desire were not out of place for Molly Hooper. He'd been subject to them for years, in her discrete way. It was simply a level to their sometimes-toxic relationship.

The darkness, dancing, and danger had magnified them, and it had briefly- and he _insisted_ briefly- stolen his attention.

The downfall had occurred, when forcefully _they _had entered his mind. Their torturous emerald eyes sucked the warmth from his chest, from their proximity, and he'd _panicked._

He swore he had heard them, in his ear, telling him it's okay to _let go._

_Stop it._

He'd panicked, he'd called Molly _Habibi. _

_Human. Error._

Molly was an entire singular entity to that- to _them – _If he connected them, he'd bring them into the present more than they'd manifested already.

That endeavour had the power to shatter the orbit they stood upon.

Then suddenly, the ground shifted once more. Sherlock gasped, spinning, realising exactly where he was. Mountains surrounded his peripheral, dominating with snow-capped peaks. The air was tight with altitude. He descended into a valley. There lay a lake of crystal blue, rendered silver in the moonlight.

They were sat at the edge, arms wrapped over their knees, bare feet submerged in the clear depths. Silently, he sat by their side. His own feet sighed in relief as they met the water.

"What am I doing here?" They asked, looking out to the silver rays flickering on black depths. "It's been months since you visited me."

"I've been plagued with memories of you as of late," He admitted, "Though I can't fathom why."

They turned to him, green eyes glowing under moonlight. They placated him. "Isn't it obvious? Your flashbacks were triggered when you shot Magnussen and saved Mary. At that moment, you lived out your biggest fantasy. That you could have saved me, too."

Sherlock heaved a breath, a deep pain in my heart settling on his joints. "I tried."

"I know."

For a while, they sat in silence.

Man and ghost.

"Molly looked beautiful tonight," They began.

"I don't believe in beautiful appearances, only beautiful minds."

They leaned forward and grasped some water in their palm. Sherlock admired the liquid trail down their fingers, making their skin glisten.

"The way you looked at her, that was new. That feeling in the pit of your stomach, that visceral flame… It roared with electricity. I have never seen such a current become you before. …I wonder if your subconscious seeks my presence for permission."

"Permission?" He asked, astounded, "Whatever would I need to consult a ghost's permission for?"

"To let go… Because your response was completely unprecedented... You wanted her. You've never wanted her before... Not like that."

He ground his hands together, wishing their torment would stop.

"I wasn't ready."

Their deep gaze turned to him, ravaging him. He was lost in a green ocean and was drowning.

"You weren't ready for Molly? Or you weren't ready to let me go?"

"…Habibi, please."

They watched him, keen eyes probing intelligently, quietly asking for more. When he stumbled over his words, he chided himself.

"Molly Hooper isn't… We aren't… I say I'm not ready, and I don't even comprehend what r_eady _means."

Then, they smiled. "You will, Sherlock."

Cerulean eyes drew open, drinking in London as the mountains drifted into skyscrapers. Sherlock felt sick. He wanted a hit. His whole body itched. He examined the space around him for escape. For a moment, he thought he was alone.

Then, a quiet sound of paper being drawn was heard. And Sherlock silently turned his head.

Molly Hooper was stood by the window, still in the extravagant russet gown. She didn't notice him, all her focus was drawn to the book in her hands.

It was the book of Romantic European writings of significance he'd read that morning. He'd left it on his mantlepiece before he'd left. Her brow was knitted in concentration, an expression he'd grown entirely used to over the years.

_Wait._

The detective saw it was open upon one of his dog-eared pages.

_There was always more to Molly Hooper._

"French or German?"

Molly jumped, almost dropped the book, and then proceeded to glower. "Can't you cough or something?"

"I didn't require to."

"Right." She giggled. "…What did you say?"

"French or German?"

"Oh…" She smiled sheepishly, "German. Sort of. I did a research post in Munich after my doctorate. I lived there for fourteen months." There was a beat. "I presumed you'd known that?"

Sherlock blinked, "Perhaps I deleted it."

"I'm not fluent, really. These old texts are hard to understand, though beautiful… These men definitely loved solitude, it's perfection."

Sherlock remained silent. He found it remarkable. His interests weren't the tropes of the common man, and he found it extraordinary that he'd known Molly for so long, so closely, yet never understood this area of common appreciation.

_Always more._

Molly teased one bent corner between two fingers and met his gaze completely. "Einsamkeit ist alles."

_Solitude is everything. _Sherlock's heart flickered, and he smiled.

"Einsamkeit ist Schönheit." He replied.

_Solitude is beauty. _Molly smiled back.

For a moment, only tranquil seclusion surrounded them.

Sherlock found it profound.

"Oh…. Is that the time?" Molly murmured with wide eyes, "I should really get back."

"Stay the night."

Molly blinked.

Sherlock blinked _furiously. _Where had that come from?

There was a silence.

"Sleep in John's old room if it makes you more comfortable. But you're exhausted and I'd rather not have you travelling the tube on your own at this hour. Also, it will be more efficient for us to go Bart's together in the morning. Another person is dead, after all. Time truly is off the essence."

Molly bit her lip, she didn't quite know what to say. She had stayed at Baker Street before- Several times, in fact- When Sherlock had been going through bouts of cold turkey. Those had been some of the most taxing nights of her life. But something in the air was different, there was a weightless energy dancing above them. One that hadn't left since they'd danced in each other's arms.

Alarm bells went off, ones that shouted _Habibi_.

"...What about Toby?"

"The cat will survive."

Molly stepped away from the windowsill, looked down at herself, and sighed. "I can't sleep in this."

"Technically, you could."

"Sherlock don't be clever. I look like a walking tulip."

"_That's _the best imagery you can think of?"

"It's been a long day."

The detective stood to his feet, running a hand through his hair. "You can wear some of my pyjamas if they'll improve your sleep quality."

Molly hesitated.

"Please," Sherlock furthered, "It's my thank you."

"…This can't become a regular thing," Molly murmured softly, "People will start asking questions."

She saw Sherlock's adam's apple bob at that. "Mm, rightly so."

After a pregnant pause of mediation, Molly looked to scrawls of music on his coffee table. The music that had killed two innocent people.

Her shoulders lowered. "…Just this once. For the case."

"For the case." He agreed.

* * *

**For the case, indeed...**

**THE MUSIC  
****The song sang by Evangeline O'Brien was "O deathe rock me a-Sleepe". This is a piece commonly attributed to Anne Boleyn, wife of Henry VIII, written as she awaited execution in 1536. Though historians question this, with theories ranging from it being composed by her brother Lord Rochford, all the way to an Elizabethan Courtier years later. it is a very poignant, haunting piece.**

**A review box lays just below with your name on it. It survives on your feedback.**

**See you at the next one!**


	5. The Grieving Symphony

**Greetings everyone! Welcome to the next instalment of this tale. Many apologies for the delay, however, one is just exceedingly busy with a million projects as of late! This story hasn't been abandoned, I promise. :-)**

**A Reminder: Sherlock and Molly have just left Hampton Court Palace, where another musician was murdered. There, they had a *ahem* rather intense moment in the dark, before he called her "Habibi". Now at Baker Street, Molly has spent the night- Though under platonic terms.**

**Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs to those who hold the copyright of BBC Sherlock. No copyright infringement, or profit, is intended.**

**The curtain rises...**

* * *

"I remain restless and dissatisfied; what I knot with my right hand, I undo with my left, what my left hand creates, my right fist shatters" ~ _Günter Grass_

* * *

_Tick, tock, tick, tock… _

A pair of cerulean eyes bore onto a clock, watching the motions of time.

Time was a constant companion for the Sherlock Holmes; For when a case proved impossible to solve, _time_ would gift him the motions to solve it.

_Tick, tock… _

In this instance, time had yet to prevail.

The _Issue of Molly _had been an unbearable itch throughout the night. Even in sleep, she'd lingered, an apparition of warmth amongst rational judgement. Truthfully, Sherlock was beguiled he'd slept at all. After Molly had departed, he'd spent several hours reviewing the case before sleep had consumed him.

A brief departure into subconscious, but one of note, nonetheless.

For a while, he'd swam in the abyss. But then the darkness had evolved into mountains and windswept pastures where the grass was red and rocky plains glowed like pearls under moonlight. He walked across an abstract representation of the gown Molly had worn at the palace. A world that was hers and his, when his body had electrified with a primal instinct that had never struck him with such vigour until _that moment-_

He'd awoke before the sun rose, a line of sweat covering his brow and an uncomfortable tingling teasing his skin.

Exasperated, he'd showered under cold water, tossed his dressing gown on, and stalked watch by his clock.

He understood more about Molly's smile as they danced than what the abandoned music meant.

_It was abhorrent. _

A ray of sunlight tore through Baker Street's living room window, a siren for the dawn.

Time would deliver him reprieve. Just as time had delivered him when-

_"I can't die, I'm not ready. You promised-"_

_"Habibi, you're not doing to die. Look at me."_

Sherlock swept upright, hands scrabbling for his Stradivarius.

Time would bring relief.

It had to.

It always did.

He drew the instrument to his collar, a knight withdrawing a sword from their helm. Then, with a stilted grace, he drew the bow against the strings. A mournful cry sang across London. His eyes creased shut, his lips parted, and he willed himself away. The instinctual melodies of loss were diverted for the ones of mystery. The manuscript left at the palace was dragged across his subconscious and replicated by his hands. A monstrous- beautiful- deadly weapon-

_ "Sherlock?" _

The notes grated to a horrid halt. His brain demanded data, so his eyes drew open.

_How long has she been there?_

Under bashful sunlight, sat _morning_ Molly Hooper. She was curled in John's chair, one knee brought towards her chest secured by her arms. The pyjamas he'd lent her hung loosely over her body; the navy sleeves almost reaching her fingertips. The large neckline exposed the small pale expanse of her collar, revealing two tiny moles on porcelain skin. Her hair had been haphazardly tied into an off-centre loose bun. Auburn tendrils escaped either side, brightening her. Her brown eyes seemed larger, somehow, dark pools glittering in golden blooms of the morning sun-

But that didn't stop his breath.

It was the fact that as he saw her like this, he saw an antique beauty in russet red, against his chest, _against his hands-_

Suddenly, he felt _horrendously_ exposed.

_"Molly."_

She watched him through curious brows. "Er, everything okay?"

_Vasodilation across cheeks, limited eye contact, insistent tapping on kneecap, three a second, tap-tap-tap-_

Molly was nervous. He recognised the symptoms, having been the subject of her nervous tendencies for years.

"Mm. Quite. Just," He frowned, "Investigating."

"What are you playing?"

The detective batted his violin-clad hand to the manuscript on the table. "The scrawl left at the palace. I'm trying to link the fragments together. But without key signature, time signature, or structure it becomes nonsensical. There is no meaning to be derived. It is purely _sound." _

"Maybe that's the point?"

"I thought you were asleep." Sherlock interrupted.

"Oh, yeah. I woke up because of..." Her eyes trailed to the violin, with a shy tight smile.

Sherlock ignored it. "Interesting. Mrs Hudson always sleeps through my playing. John did too, after he acclimatised."

"Well, considering Mrs Hudson's herbal soothers I wouldn't count her as a solid reference." Molly smirked ruefully, "Also, I saw earplugs in John's bedside drawer. He didn't take them with him… Clearly it wasn't _Mary_ keeping him up at night."

The detective found her look of calculated confidence marginally exciting. An astute brow soared-

_No. Not again. Focus. _

He strode into the kitchen, violin abandoned. "We need to go to Bart's. The toxicology reports should be in. We have a murder to solve."

"Couldn't agree more," Molly replied, stepping towards the kitchen threshold, "I just need-"

Sherlock tossed an apple to her, which she dropped.

"Sustenance achieved. Get your shoes. I'll go get changed."

"Er- Thanks... But I need clothes, too." An impish grin teased her lips, "Elizabethan dress is hardly morgue material."

"You're wearing clothes now." He reasoned.

"…I can't go out in your pyjamas, Sherlock-"

"They're more comfortable than the Elizabethan dress."

"You're joking-"

"The designation of nightclothes and day clothes is a human construct." He drawled, turning to the wall. "As long as you're adequately covered- which you are- the majority of Londoners won't notice-"

A soft, plump object bounced against his forehead and fell to the floor with a resounding _plop_.

The detective froze.

There was a brief, stunned, silence.

"…Doctor Hooper, did you just launch a _teabag_ at me?"

Molly stood, her tiny hand braced above the tea caddy. Her cheeks trembled at the force of unspent laughter. When she found words, they were low, one out of every three given with a giggling tremble.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I will not be leaving to solve two murders in your pyjamas. Do I make myself clear?"

"Molly-"

"I _repeat._ Do I make myself clear?"

Her gaze was that of a warrior, challenging him- _daring him__\- _to duel.

Instinctively, he raised on his haunches for the intellectual brawl-

_…Are you distracted again, brother mine?_

And he relented to her victory, this time.

"…In John's room at the back of his wardrobe are a few of Mary's clothes. He's left them here in case they ever need to stop over. Something about 'assisting the man child'" A beat. "I don't think they're all maternity clothes. …They may be a little large for you, but it's something."

Molly stood back, accomplished. "Thank you."

She began to retreat to the stairs.

Sherlock followed her to the door. "I _was_ joking about the pyjamas."

"You need to work on your sarcasm-"

"You need to work on your choice of weapon. A _dry teabag,_ Doctor Hooper?"

_"Arschgeige!" _

Sherlock chuckled. _"Einzeller!"_

"On the way to Barts we need to stop and feed Toby! And you _will_ wait- because I will pick up my actual clothes too!"

Sherlock scowled.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had never been more grateful for the dead.

And neither had Molly Hooper.

St Bartholomew's Hospital was a reliable aid. The access to equipment was far better than that offered at other institutions- Due to Mike Stamford's personal liking of him- and thus, it was a place of productivity. Productivity that had always been supported by Doctor Molly Hooper, the efficient, quick-thinking, intelligent pathologist.

Productivity was security, and Sherlock drank in the work as the usual man would water.

Here, he could truly be Sherlock Holmes.

Any fluctuations to his carefully concocted image of Molly Hooper could be locked away. Now, _Doctor_ Hooper would flourish.

As detective and pathologist arrived, Doctor Hooper asked a lab assistant to collect their toxicology reports whilst they carried out the investigation on Katherine's body.

Like a rehearsed dance, they sanitised their hands, slipped plastic gloves over their hands, and prepared the body for examination.

So, there they were.

Detective and Pathologist.

Standing over a corpse.

Both entirely relieved for its presence.

"If you would." Sherlock offered, his eyes narrowing in preparation.

Neatly, Molly grasped the sheet with both palms. Then, he paused. Because Molly _hesitated._

Though Molly empathised for the dead, she always knew how to separate herself from the harshness of their plight. Focusing on_ justice _gave her the unbelievable drive to work thoroughly. Her sentiment was a tool for her success, not a hindrance.

It was a concept he had never understood.

"Sorry," Molly apologised, breathlessly, "I'm just-"

"It's not your fault." Sherlock interrupted, without judgement. "When you got to this woman the anaphylactic shock was fatal. There was nothing you could have done. You understand that."

She nodded sadly, and Sherlock wished to make her smile.

The thought stunned him.

_You're losing focus, brother mine. _

With a converging breath, Molly eased down the sheet, and turned the recorder on.

Immediately, Sherlock acquiesced the victim. Her name was Katherine Tonnesen. Shoulder length brunette hair upon a BMI that was average for women her age. She was decidedly ordinary, Sherlock thought. Yet, this woman- _this musician-_ had been killed during performance at Hampton Court Palace. She was decidedly _interesting._

As of yet, there was nothing to link her with the murder of Luke Yates. Except Evangeline O'Brien had been present in the venue, at the time of both their deaths.

_Luke wasn't right._

_Why weren't you right, Katherine? What did you want?_

Instantly, Sherlock began reciting physical observations "Caucasian, Scottish heritage, thirty-six," He craned his head to inspect her nails, "Newly turned vegetarian, two months ago-"

"Unmarried," Molly added, "Though sexually active."

The pair shared a brief glance before Molly gestured to dotted red love-bites across her left collar, with two more on her pelvis.

"Right arm more defined than the left," Sherlock continued, gloves ghosting the paled skin, "Diaphragm muscle exercised from flute playing. This was her fulltime profession. More demanding than chamber work- She was in a professional orchestra. Last night's interlude with The Tallis Players was a favour-"

A loud knock on the door echoed.

Molly stood upright. Sherlock didn't notice.

A trainee lab assistant eyed the pair with a nervous smile, "Molly, I got that toxicology report for you."

"Amazing, thanks Eddie." Molly smiled, removing her gloves and taking the paper.

As she scanned the findings, a small crease appeared in between her brows, and her bottom lip drew between her lips.

Sherlock glared in irritation at her delay of information relay-

_Her skin is incandescent marble in the dark. Heartbeat rising. Her eyes are dilated. Are mine? My stomach lurches. Her chest rises and falls. I want to explore, to- Her lips are a siren. Molly is siren. I want to touch her. I want-_

_You weren't ready for Molly? Or you weren't ready to let me go?_

"Stop it."

"Sorry?"

Sherlock forcefully pushed back from the slab. Two-fisted palms gripped his hair.

Molly turned the recorder off.

"Sherlock… Are you-"

"What are the findings, Doctor Hooper?" He snapped.

Molly flinched, looking between the paper and detective in rapid repetition. "Er, okay… We were wrong."

"Ridiculous. Don't-" He snapped the sheet from her, "…_Ingested."_

"She wasn't poisoned from the lip balm. No- it's from water, laced with sodium fluoroacetate."

The detective lowered the paper. "Compound 1080."

"Whoever did this, r_eally _wanted Katherine dead, Sherlock. The dose was so strong. This… This isn't like Luke Yates. They left no chance of survival."

The detective began to stalk the mortuary back and forth, back and forth- His palms outstretched in front of him, grasping for theories, for a_nswers- _But the plain of mystery was sparse. Everything lacked substance. Just like they- _No, stop. _It was suffocating, intolerable, infuriating- Words shot and vanished just out of sight, berating him for his distraction. Laughing, mimicking, teasing at his distress-

_The rusted metal door protested as I pushed it aside. I pulled a cloth against my mouth. Moonlight slipped through cracks in rusted corrugate, dousing the factory in irregular streaks of navy against orange rust. _

_Shelves stretched, metres upon metres. The same nondescript tins piled against every one._

_I squinted at the symbols that met my eyes. _

'_Арсеник… цианид__… СЪЕДИНЕНИЕ 1080'._

"_Poison." I whispered, the word as dangerous as its contents, "…Moriarty's last stronghold." _

_From darkness, emerald bloomed like fireflies. I glanced at them, at the pistol in their hand that shouldn't have been there, at their cracked lips and dry fingertips. _

"_One last mission." They said. _

"_One last mission." I agreed. _

When consciousness resurfaced, Sherlock felt cold.

A warmth pressed against his cheek_\- a disturbance_\- and the detective craned his eyes to the source. Molly Hooper was searching him, analysing him- Her demeanour _dreadfully kind._

"Hey," She offered softly, "Are you alright?"

The warmth on her palm attacked him, tore at his insides and suddenly, inextricably, he wanted to reach out-

Sherlock clamped his eyes closed. W_hy? _His synapses demanded, _Why must you recall unnecessary memories? _It was pointless. Here two victims required his assistance and he was forcibly caught in changing tides, bringing forth data that didn't _count_.

A finger stroked his jaw-

He grasped her arm.

Molly startled.

Concern, care, _fear, loyalty- I want her-_

Sherlock's mobile sprung to life.

Detective and Pathologist swept away from each other. Molly scrambled for the other side of the slab, put on her gloves, and grasped a scalpel she didn't need like it was her purpose all along.

He drew his mobile to his ear.

"Lestrade."

"_Hi Sherlock. Listen, right now at the Yard I've got a man here called Reginald Tonnesen. He's Katherine Tonessen's father. He's asked to see you personally about her death."_

"Why does he seek my presence?"

"_Because that bloody video of you in the Palace has gone viral. He knows you were a witness to her murder. We told him we lost O'Brien and Takahashi, and he demanded the presence of-" _

There was a loud, audible sigh-

"_A real detective."_

Sherlock's cheek twitched. "He's a clever man."

"_Bugger off and get your arse down to the station, would you?"_

"On my way."

* * *

**New Scotland Yard**

Lestrade groaned, circling the spot above his right eye with two fingertips. A headache he'd labelled _The Sherlock Holmes Migraine w_as reeling its majestic head.

He wished he had coffee. Or a beer. _Actually,_ he fancied a Bakewell Tart-

"Focus, Gabe! If you imbeciles focused more on finding murderers instead of dreaming of _confectionary_ maybe this would be a more efficient establishment."

"Sherlock," The DI warned.

The Detective rolled his eyes. "Mr Tonnesen, if you would-"

Reginald Tonnesen blinked rapidly between two detectives. His daughter was _dead,_ and they had the audacity to _bicker_\- He swallowed, "Mr Holmes, I have taken an active interest in your blog for years. You have an impeccable mind-"

_"-And shit social skills,"_ Lestrade huffed inaudibly.

"-And… And you were there. When my daughter..." He stole resolve, "You were _there_. Does murder follow you around?"

"If only the world was that simple." Sherlock deadpanned, "Mr Tonnesen, we are trying to understand the circumstances of your daughter's death. If we can find the link, it will help us find O'Reilly and Takahashi. Exercise your mind, use your instincts. Tell us about her."

The man started to talk about Katherine- _about trivial matters-_ and Sherlock glowered. His previous assessment that Reginald had been intelligent had been dissolved within six seconds of witnessing his presence. Reginald Tonnesen was a stout aged man, bearing a large trimmed moustache and large grey eyes. As resident conductor of the Royal London Sinfonia, he exuded authority. Not that authority stood in place for intelligence, _obviously_. His daughter had joined the Tallis players as a favour to her friend from her Conservatoire days- _dull, ordinary-_

"What about personal relationships?" Ventured Lestrade.

Sherlock glared.

Reginald explained that Katherine's love life was akin to many of the tedious experiences he'd encountered during his cases. She was having an affair with a married man- _Why do humans waste their time on such exploits? Emotional entanglements born from lust are- I wonder if Molly has completed Katherine's autopsy- No, focus! _Reginald had no means of contacting the adulterer to tell him of Katherine's death- He never learned his name. No doubt, when the man would inevitably find out, the secret would out. Sentiment would be master of another path of destruction.

"…I suppose she's always been a dreamer, Mr Holmes. Wanting the perfect life, family, children, a house with a large garden-"

Images of Molly and Meat Dagger ran like a bitter wind through his nerves.

"But she can't choose who she falls- _fell, _in love with. Anyway," He exhaled and cleared his throat, "I suppose this is irrelevant."

"Your assumption is correct."

"Sherlock," Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock discerned the man. "Did Katherine ever take interest in composition? Or arranging musical scores?"

Reginald drew up to say _no, _but then a thought occurred. _A doubt. _

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"A week ago, she made this silly claim to me after rehearsal. I don't see why this is-"

"Go on."

The conductor ran his thumb and index finger across his moustache. "…We are rehearsing for an upcoming concert this weekend at the Royal Albert Hall. It's a unique event, in which we are performing works from entirely _unfinished w_orks. Excerpts from Mozart's _Zaide, _Bruckner's 9th Symphony, Prokofiev's 6th Concerto. Katherine made a remark, a ridiculous one…"

"What was that?"

"She said that the music was wrong in parts and needed changing. Not that it was true, the scores, Mr Holmes, are Bärenreiter-"

"Stop talking!" Sherlock snapped.

With a grunt, he began prowling the office. Back, and forth, back and forth- The manuscript from Hampton Court Palace flashed rapidly before his eyes. Luke Yates had died, now Katherine Tonnesen. Two deaths.

_Luke wasn't right. _

_What did Katherine know?_

Then, Sherlock swept around the table and pulled Reginald to his feet. A ferociously friendly smile bloomed.

"Sir, I need to investigate your orchestra. If the music is changed, then you are looking at a murder weapon in the very baton you wave."

The man startled, "I don't understand-"

"Can you rehearse them tonight? The Royal Sinfonia?"

Lestrade grasped Sherlock's upper arm, "Mate, his daughter has just died. Come on-"

Sherlock didn't budge. He knew Reginald would relent.

And relent, he did.

"…You think this will help bring my daughter justice?"

"Yes."

Reginald took a slow breath, "Then of course, Mister Holmes. We shall play on."

"One more thing."

Lestrade grimaced.

Sherlock smiled.

"I don't suppose you're looking for a new second violinist?"

* * *

As the evening dawned and Molly's shift came to an end, she had to admit she was grateful Sherlock hadn't gotten back in touch.

She was _exhausted._

Molly had always marvelled at Sherlock's ability to persevere on a case despite his body's needs. After Hampton Court Palace, the day conducting Katherine's autopsy followed immediately by two others and a pile of paperwork, well- She was ready for a long bath, a catch up on Call the Midwife, and, possibly, a large glass of Merlot. Simply imagining the detective barrelling through London chasing after leads made her skin ache with fatigue.

And, despite everything, she needed the space.

For years, Molly had been unrequitedly in love with Sherlock Holmes. Where romance refused to blossom, however, friendship had taken root. And Molly appreciated that- How rare and beautiful it was, to be friends with Sherlock Holmes.

She ached to know what Habibi meant.

But as his friend, he trusted her not to ask.

She only hoped if not her, he would tell John.

Perhaps that moment in the dark- a moment of weakness on both their parts- was the culmination of the intensity of the strides they had made to protect one another for almost a decade.

Robotically, she got ready to head home. She secured her coat over her shoulders and pulled her wool hat over her head. Thoughts of Sherlock lingered like a shadow, but she ignored them.

It was a sensation she'd grown greatly accustomed to over the years.

Bitter air attacked her as she stepped outside. Rain was starting to fall, traffic lights sent bright refractions over dark tarmac. Sleepy commuters buzzed passed her.

Just as she was fumbling for her earphones, an odd figure caught her attention.

A blonde man stood stooped under a lamppost. His face lay cast in darkness.

He was crying.

Though she empathised, she knew it was safer not to approach a conversation with a lone man when London was getting dark, so she stepped quickly past-

"Wait!"

The young man stepped towards her- And suddenly, recognition flooded her.

"S-sorry," Jake gasped, face scrunching in effort, "Y-You're the lady w-who…"

It was Jake, the lead singer from The Three Crows. The man who had lost his boyfriend, Luke, on New Year's Night. Molly's heart dropped like lead. "Hi," She said, lamely, "Are you alright?" _Stupid question._

"Y-yeah," He furiously wiped his eyes, "It's just… L-Luke is being kept here, t-they won't release him yet. I was g-going home, b-" The word didn't fall, and his whole body tensed with effort. "I _c-can't leave, h-him._"

"Hey," Molly soothed. "Listen. I know it hurts… But standing out here in the rain won't do anything. Luke wouldn't want this."

"I-Is your friend, M-Mister Holmes still invest- ah, i-investigating? …L-Last night h…he was on a video. N-not about, Luke…" He faltered, eyes a translucent sheen of desperation.

Molly smiled sadly. How troubling it must be for him, she thought, to not understand. But if the police hadn't informed Jake the murders were related, it was not her place to.

"Trust Sherlock, Jake… He will solve this."

The man nodded with a whimper.

"Is there anyone I can call for you?" Molly inquired gently, "To take you home?"

"N-Nah, I'll get the- the tube." He offered her a broken smile. "T-thanks, er-"

"Molly," She told him, "I'm-."

_Buzz- _

With an apologetic smile, Molly reached into her pocket and withdrew her phone.

**The Prince Albert Memorial.  
Come immediately.  
-SH**

When she looked up, the boy was gone.

* * *

"I honestly don't understand why I keep letting you get me into these situations." Was the first thing Molly Hooper said to him upon arriving at the steps of the Albert memorial.

The aloof detective looked sophisticated, entirely awake, and focussed. Molly, with the tips of her hair frizzing from precipitation, aching with exhaustion, and starving- Found his perfect presence exasperating. Yet, her heart involuntarily warmed, she didn't fight it.

They were friends. And he needed her.

"Because," he replied, "You are as addicted to mystery as I am."

"Addicted?"

"Molly, you have voluntarily made your profession solving the mysteries of the dead. You have spent years of your short existence on the project, accepted the social pitfalls of the profession and put yourself thousands of pounds in debt without complaint," He grinned, a dangerous- _stunning_ – grin, "Because you love it."

"…I wouldn't call it an addiction."

Sherlock tipped his head to the memorial statue. The rain began to assimilate on his dark curls. "Anyone who does a job as well as you do yours can hardly be considered anything else."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's an observation."

Molly shivered. The surround lighting of the Royal Albert Hall caught in her irises, dusted by the Edwardian homes of Kensington.

"Sherlock, why am I here?"

Then, he grinned again. But it was different, there was a sparkling intention in that smile_._

"Molly, will you accompany me in breaking into the Royal Albert Hall?_"_

* * *

Throughout Sherlock's life, there were several social constructs he had never understood. His brain was built to compute facts, not sentiments.

One sentiment that beguiled him was attachments to places. A building was solely a manmade construct, a collection of cement and brick. Despite this, people flocked to tourist destinations, rendered speechless at the meaning they presented. Many humans placed vast importance the homes they'd been raised in. But it was the experiences that counted, not the buildings, surely.

As detective and pathologist navigated their way into the Royal Albert Hall, Sherlock found himself inspecting Molly Hooper. _A study on sentimental attachment to buildings_, he assured himself, _A Study._

A helpless wander encroached on her every mannerism. She didn't appear lost. Rather, she was retracing her footsteps.

"You had a tradition of visiting here." He observed.

"My dad used to bring me, mum and Adam here every year for the proms. Well, until he got sick, and-"

_"Adam?" _

Molly stopped walking, frowned, then chased after him. "Sherlock, you've known me for nearly a decade. Don't you know I have an older brother?"

"Irrelevant"

"Seriously?"

"I have a cousin named Marie. Her son Pierre is a chorister at Westminster Abbey. He's nine." Sherlock deadpanned. "There is a great deal we don't know about each other."

Molly frowned, perplexed, but didn't venture further.

They continued onwards.

Eventually, after carefully avoiding several security cameras- _honestly, one would think the man was a spy-_ he approached one of the Hall's boxes.

And procured a key.

"Where did you find that?"

"The more you don't know, the better," He replied succinctly, unlocking the door. He held it open for her.

Molly eyed him suspiciously, then climbed under his arm to get past. "Very chivalrous of you."

Sherlock almost laughed. "Don't get used to it."

Music filtered the air as soon as she entered the space. Refraining a gasp, Molly quietly took her seat. Sherlock sat aside her. The view was breathtaking. The theatre was empty of spectators, but an orchestra was spread across the stage. A conductor stood upon a podium, gesturing precisely. Molly watched in awe. It was amazing how a single gesture could command artillery of sound. Maybe that's how Sherlock mind worked. A single thought exploding into a hundred fleeting moments of beauty. An idea formed amongst them, a solution, _a deduction_.

If his thoughts were a symphony, she hung onto every note.

Unlike herself, the detective was ramrod straight. Methodically, a singular digit pulsated with the music, as if conducting the orchestra itself.

Helplessly, it made Molly smile.

Taking in a deep breath, she considered for the umpteenth time what was occurring between her and Sherlock.

He didn't need her here.

He'd chosen to bring her.

Something was shifting beneath their feet, a silent drifting from the orbit they'd existed upon for years. The air felt different, their proximity felt different.

In the dark, Molly had felt her want breathe into him.

And, despite all logical reasoning… Her gut was telling her he hadn't let it go.

Aggrieved, Molly willed away the fantastical tone of her thoughts.

"The second clarinet is flat." Sherlock chided obtusely.

Molly blinked back into the present. "How can you tell?"

"If you listen to every instrumentalist-"

"I can't hear them all… I just hear all the sound together, and it's lovely."

"How does your brain understand music if it hears everything together? All those details, those moments of artistic splendour, lost."

"Maybe the beauty is in unity." She offered.

Sherlock held her eyes for a moment in genuine puzzlement, before turning his focus back to the players. If her words caused the creeping sensation on his skin, he didn't flinch.

"Do you see that empty seat in the wind section?" Sherlock queried, "That seat was for Katherine Tonnesen."

A sudden sadness tore her smile away. "She worked for them?"

"Mm. The Royal London Sinfonia. The conductor is her father. He will have announced his daughter's demise just before the rehearsal started." He tilted his head, "…It is imperative to examine the players. If someone knows what happened to Katherine, or about her possible connection with Luke Yates, it will be far easier to read it in a grieving crowd."

Molly debated calling him out for lack of sympathy but held back. Sympathy and Sherlock Holmes were not compatible mediums. To him, it was all information. But, wait- _how did he-_

"...You didn't break in." Molly muttered, "Of course you didn't! You knew the codes. You had _a key_-"

"You need to work on your methods of observation. If I wanted to watch in the shadows, why would I choose _a box_-"

"You're _unbelievable!_ What was the point in fibbing?"

Sherlock's flicked through his mental thesaurus before picking an appropriate response. "Fun?"

Molly looked like she was about to hit him, walk away, or burst out laughing. She settled on indignance, crossing her arms and glaring. "Bugger off, Sherlock. You were showing off."

"Can't a man seek enjoyment in mild deception?"

For a while, they drifted into silence. The hum of the orchestra lulled Molly into a state of contentment, whilst Sherlock remained poised, a fly on the wall.

Eventually, Sherlock spoke. His baritone timbre resonated with the deepest cello. "Mr Tonnesen understands my methods. Thus, he's giving me ample opportunity to observe his players at heightened emotional output. Today I observe the orchestra, tomorrow I_ join_ them."

"…You, in an orchestra?"

"Yes, why is that surprising?"

"You… You're more the brooding type. Playing the violin into the early hours as a means of self-expression. Performing in a social setting is just- it isn't you. _Einsamkeit ist alles_."

"One has often had to assume a social persona for the purposes of the case. I once joined a professional Barynya ensemble in Izhevsk. Another time, I alighted as a psychic in Biškek, though that was a mistake."

Molly listened to him intently, wondering what had happened in the years of his death. What he had seen? _Who_ he had seen? This wasn't the first-time details had slipped conversationally, but if she ventured further discussion- which she, John, Mrs Hudson, in fact _everyone_ had before, she knew she would be shut down with harsh words and acidic deductions.

The Detective seemed unphased, however, changing the topic. "If you notice, they haven't stopped playing since we arrived. This is a rehearsal. Yet, they're _performing._ Somehow, I doubt Mr Tonnesen has the strength to stop. Silence in grief is a formidable mistress."

Molly looked at him. He watched stoically into an unseeing distance. But it was his eyes that caused her pause. There was a storm in them. A pain. One she had seen as he'd decided to save Jake from more suffering. One that she had seen as called her Habibi.

"…That's terrible." Molly managed, "I- I can't believe he's still come in to conduct."

"To many people, music is therapy. To others, work is. Mr Tonnesen is culminating them as the ultimate distraction from loss. The English resolve, keep calm and carry on."

She swore he sounded bitter.

Like a wisp of snow landing upon ebony hair, a thought occurred to Molly Hooper.

Chains wrapped around her stomach, ice-cold, shackling her to the floor.

_Grief. _

_Was this grief?_

_There are lots of anniversaries I'd rather not relive. _

_Solitude protects me. My past protects me._

_There is a great deal we don't know about each other._

_Habibi._

Beneath them, a timpani rumbled.

_Oh God._

He was grieving.

How had she not noticed before?

Had _anyone_ noticed before?

After Sherlock shot Magnussen, he refused to protest his sentencing. Because- Molly's heart rocked- he had told her he found _solace_ in returning to nothing. Because maybe that nothing, was _someone_. Against him in the dark, Molly had sworn his attention had been on her, but then had been captured. He had looked right through her, and then, he'd called her by another name.

Fear, doubt, and realisation arrested her bones.

Perhaps this is what it was like, to think like Sherlock Holmes.

Suddenly the music grated to a turbulent halt- The instrumentalists stopped playing creating a disordered loss of sound. Clarinettists removed their lips from reeds, fingers slipped from cellist's fingerboards, and percussionists clasped his hands over chimes to stop the harmonics' vibrations.

Together, detective and pathologist stood.

The conductor gripped the music stand with his baton clad hand. His head hunched low. His arms shook. And then, he sobbed.

A new sound filled the orchestra.

A symphony of grief.

"That's our cue," Sherlock announced, and before Molly could process it- _process anything-_ she was scrambling after him.

Shortly afterwards, the pair were approaching the wings to the stage. They passed musicians murmuring quietly as they left. It was akin to mourners leaving a graveside. Sherlock swept past them, without so much as a dip of head in respect.

Suddenly, Sherlock arrested Molly's hand and pulled her into a darkened corner.

"Sherlock-"

_Chest against chest, shared breaths, a knit of the brow, a parting of lips, skin rising and falling, hypnotising, pulling, soaring-_

He let her go. "Silence, Molly. Focus."

"Won't they recognise you?" Molly hissed.

He batted a hand, "They're too concentrated on their grief. Quiet. Don't draw attention to ourselves."

She saw him, rapidly reading the people around them. Perhaps he was._ He was magnificent._

_And he's grieving._

_Habibi. _

From blistering concentration, Molly's saw his expression evolve. His shoulders stiffened. His lips tightened. His hands twitched-

Abruptly, he spun, exploding quiet complaints with gunfire diction. "Ordinary. They are too ordinary. Every one of them. They don't know anything. This was a pointless endeavour-" His hands fisted, "Their grief is _pointless-" _

_"__Reginald?!__ Where's Reginald? Don't just stand there-"_

Together, detective and pathologist pivoted.

"Where is he!?" Footsteps barrelled down the hall, "Reginald? My God, I'm so sorry, I'm so-" A sob, "Christ, I've just heard. My Katherine- I'm so sorry-"

Simultaneously, the air left them.

Falling into the conductor's slack arms, was Reo Takahashi.

Instantly, Sherlock pulled her into the nearest door, closing it behind them.

"That's Reo!" Molly exclaimed.

"Reginald said his daughter was having an affair," Sherlock responded, pacing the three-metre radius of the storage wardrobe. "An affair with a married man."

"But Reo was with Evangeline O'Brien. We saw that. There were so many witnesses-"

"But the affair was secret. People didn't know they were together. Reginald never met him… And Reo wasn't seen in the video." His brows twitched in realisation. "Perhaps, like Liam was manipulated to kill Jake, Reo did the same thing to Katherine… He had suggested she alter the music."

Molly paled, "Then what happened?"

Sherlock came to a thick stop. _"…She wasn't right." _

The words left her winded. "Y-You think Evangeline and Reo were both in on it?"

"There's little room for doubt."

Molly nodded numbly. "Sherlock, what do you think we're looking at? A couple of serial killers? Killing if they don't play their music to their satisfaction? They- They dubbed the drummer in Luke's murder!"

Sherlock racked his brains. Spiders crawled along the blood vessels of his thoughts. A sickening sensation gripped him that the answers were astonishingly simple, but they were hidden. For now.

Molly lifted her phone. "We need to tell Lestrade. Both the Met and Scotland Yard have warrants out for them now. They need to know Reo is here."

"No time."

"What do you mean?"

"I think it's about time I introduce myself formally to Reo, don't you?"

Molly pushed away from the shelf, "It's too dangerous!"

He moved forward, but Molly planted herself in front of him.

"You don't know how big this is, Sherlock. Reginald Tonnesen is out there right now with quite possibly his daughter's murderer consoling him. Call. Lestrade. Now."

"Molly, stop _dithering_-"

"No, Sherlock. _No._" Molly thrust her palm on his chest. His heartbeat thudded underneath her fingertips. "I am not John. I will not let you blow your cover like this. If you really want to capture this man, you do it with the police. Did you see how much poison was in Katherine's system? If they have access to that- _God knows _what else they can do. You are not a lone superhero-"

The detective bristled with poisonous barbs. _"_Molly, _trust me!__"_

_"I can't!" _She shouted.

The air sucked from the room.

_"Christ, Sherlock! _You killed a man scarce weeks ago. How can I trust you when you're- You're-"

"When I'm _what?_" Sherlock demanded, _"Molly?"_

His eyes darkened to black pools of anger. He had always appreciated his pathologist for his disinclination to fuss, for her efficiency. How had that evolved into this tantalising, distracting, infuriating person stopping him now? Why was he listening to her, there was a case to solve!

Molly squared him with a fierce intensity.

"I see you, Sherlock Holmes. Something is eating away at you. If you jump into this now, and act recklessly because of your own emotions-"

"Emotions?!" He scoffed, "Don't be absurd!"

The sheer force of his gaze almost stole her words, but Molly Hooper was not weak. Not anymore. He was challenging her- daring her-

So, dare, she did.

"I know a grieving man when I see one."

Anger thrust into shock in the space of a heartbeat.

Sherlock Holmes, master of words, simply _stopped._

He didn't breathe_._

_My, she's clever… Isn't she beautiful? She's the first person to ever see me._

_No… No! Focus- ErrOr- Stop- Run- RUN-_

With an almighty growl, he swept past her and out of the door.

Only to find Reo, Reginald, and the other musicians gone.

The detective bolted towards the stage door. His coat billowed around him, frightening, dangerous, determined.

But they were gone. Gone with their secrets. Gone with their answers.

As he thrust open the door, he drank in oxygen. Inside, where his mind should have been pulsating with theory, two words span-

_Molly knows Molly knows Molly knows-_

He placed his hands upon the stone wall, against the sides of his head, and sagged. A deep ache claimed him, and for the first time in months, He wished they were by his side.

"_Have you ever felt like you're going mad?"_

_A gentle chuckle emitted into the night, "On a daily basis."_

"_Perhaps," I reasoned, "It is in intelligent minds that the most rambunctious thoughts take precedence. A brain too crowded is a brain overwhelmed."_

"_You seem calm to me." They replied, "Though you are an enigma. Maybe you are madman, leading me all the way out here to kill me."_

_I leaned away, admiring the emerald that became them. "Without you who would I talk to? The wind? The ghosts?"_

A guttural sound left his throat, and he wished he had cocaine. Oblivion was safer than memories of them.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't aware of how much time passed. One moment he was still, the next, he was back inside the theatre. Retracing his steps. Discordant cries filled his brain. His palms itched for cocaine, his heart begged for it, his mind- well, _it screamed._

_Molly knows._

Her sentiment had derailed him. It was a mistake to go to her after his exile was voided. It was a mistake to bring her on this case. The Issue of Molly was threatening his very livelihood. It was invading his mind like a virus. It had to be terminated. The sanctity of his sanity was at stake.

_And yet-_

When she had said it, his instinctive reaction wasn't repulsion.

It was _relief._

_Sentiment is a weakness_, his mind berated him like a solemn mantra, as he went in search of Molly. He felt disgusted for his mere need of her. He could be walking through oblivion of a sweet needle. Yet, there he was.

And there _she_ was.

Sat crumpled on the chair of the principal violinist, on the stage of the Royal Albert Hall.

She looked garishly small in the monumental space.

A tiny being who held the ultimate power of his destruction.

A siren to his every fear.

His mind staggered with deduction after deduction, trying to construct a methodology of proceeding. What to say. But nothing was conclusive. His rational judgement failed.

He wanted to berate her, punch a wall, and scream until his eyes ran bloodshot. But he just-_ he couldn't._

Because he saw the women whose skin had glowed like a rainbow against London's fireworks, the woman who shamelessly teased him over the chessboard, the woman whose eyes had shone gold as they had danced… The woman who had saved his life, in killing him, years before. The _only_ person who asked if he was okay after he'd shot Magnussen.

She was the first person to see him, to _truly_ see him-

She always had been.

He wanted to hold her.

He wanted to kiss her.

He wanted _her._

When Molly's soft voice broke the silence, he felt sick.

"I called Lestrade… He should be here soon._"_

He didn't hear the words he found. "Molly, I brought you here as a professional asset. Yet time and time again emotional inquiry is the unnecessary path you choose. Two people are dead, and yet you wish to examine me. This has just cost us our lead on the case. Regardless of whatever theories you suppose of me you have no right to dissuade my judgement."

"Is it true?" Molly asked, so abrupt and so hollow it mad him cold.

"Is. What. True?"

"…That you've lost someone- someone _important._ Is it true?"

Silence.

"...Sherlock, I'm not the most observant person in the world. I can't read a person's pets by their brand of necklace, or tell their profession by their hands, but," She took a deep breath, looking out to the empty auditorium. "I work with the dead. I see grief all the time... I am _so sorry_ it has taken me this long to realise that you have been suffering alone."

She finally looked at him.

Molly had never seen him look so wounded, not even on the day he died.

"In the dark, last night… I felt something shift between us. I know, I'm a romanticist and you can probably list a hundred reasons exactly this wasn't the case but- I thought- I thought you wanted me- But now I know, you wanted someone else-"

Sherlock stepped towards her-

"Don't. Please. It's okay."

But he took another step, and another, and another until he was standing so close he felt dizzy. His hands fisted by his sides. Sherlock Holmes was simply a human- a _superficial, ordinary thing_\- He wanted to run.

He almost did.

"Molly… Your sentiment is distracting my neural capabilities. I can't- I won't."

Molly's soft hand cradled his jaw.

He nearly moaned in protest, in relief, in need-

_Danger. Focus. Focus. Error-_

He needed a hit. He needed silence. He needed everything to stop_. God, _he needed her-

Eyes closed, his head moved downwards, and their foreheads brushed together.

He only realised he was holding her waist when she startled against his fingertips.

Sherlock had never wanted someone so viscerally before.

He felt her every heartbeat, or maybe they were his own. He felt their mingled breaths. _Life. Lust. Molly. Oxygen-_

_My stomach plummeted. Frantically, I clung to them, muttering their name- an oath- over an over- I braced myself on the edge of the cliff, waiting to be pulled back, for their breath to save us- For their smile, and damn it- their emerald eyes lead us back to life-_

_But there was nothing._

_Just empty silence._

_Blood soaked my hands._

_"No… Please. No."_

"I'm not ready." Sherlock pushed Molly away, repulsed- disgusted-_ embarrassed-_ "I'm not ready, I'm not ready."

He wished he was in the mountains.

Life had been so much easier then.

He desperately obliterated every thought that was Molly Hooper. Yet music sang in his synapses, and the song was hers.

Through the rapid orchestra, the quietest sensation of her retreating steps pounded in his very soul. It was hateful. _And yet-_

"Molly," He called, opening his eyes.

His pathologist was by the entrance to the wings. Her back to him. A silhouette of dark against the golden light.

From the need bating his skin, from the grief in his heart, the words that fell weren't what he expected.

But they were necessary.

Selfishness was the best safety mechanism he knew, after all.

_"…Don't tell John."_

Molly waited a moment more, and then she was gone.

* * *

**Well... That was rather the emotional rollercoaster. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter!**

**A review box? A follow box? A _favourites _box? Wow, you're so lucky! Take your fill folks!**

**Thanks for the continued support, and I'll see you at the next one. :-)**


	6. The Detective and the Assassin

**Greetings everyone! In what baffling circumstances do we meet again...**

**I truly hope every single one of you is doing well.**

**Please Note:**** Unlike the other chapters, this one consists of pretty much a singular scene. It deals with the development of Sherlock's feelings, rather than the crime. It was originally meant to be a relatively small section of a much larger chapter. But, in light of the world changing rapidly, I sat down to write this small scene and it became this over one night! I do hope you enjoy it! We have soooo much to come with the case. We'll call this a prologue to the drama.**

**Off we go!**

* * *

_Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love. ~ Rainer Rilke_

* * *

"_Xoshä!" The old man exclaimed, passing tea into my hands._

_I bowed my head to portray thanks, marvelling that our mission had taken us to lands with tongues I didn't understand. However, where communication failed, hospitality flourished._

_The elderly man drifted to the corners of the room. For a fleeting moment, I replaced his quiet movements with Mrs Hudson's, and substituted the warm steam moistening my skin with the rich orange of Baker Street's hearth._

_I drew the pot to my lips, and- oh- Da hong pao leaves- would wonder never cease._

"_In tea," I began, "there is a great deal of poetry." It was a literary quote I couldn't remember completely. Another memory lost to the mountains._

_A pair of green orbs acquiesced me. "You speak as if the leaves are precious."_

"_It's a staple of my people's culture. In tea, the British find one another. It is one aspect existence I look forward to experiencing again."_

_A guarded expression hardened the crystalline edges of their eyes. "…You intend to return home after this is finished?"_

_The question struck me with surprise. I looked into the depths of the tea._

"_I do intend to return home," I told them, "But not without you."_

* * *

An Eastern wind swept across London.

_I see you, Sherlock Holmes._

Rain pounded the earth.

_I know a grieving man when I see one._

Long shadows cast dark pools between glittering streetlamps.

_I work with the dead. I see grief all the time. _

He drifted amongst the greys, the oranges, and the black.

_I am so sorry it has taken me this long to realise that you have been suffering alone._

An omnipresent ghost.

_Molly knows. _

London didn't sleep. The city teetered on the edge of slumber. Wherever he wandered, hives of nocturnal burrows glowed amongst darkened buildings.

_Molly knows._

They mocked him.

_Molly knows. _

Sherlock desired silence. Yet London slept with one eye open. Always.

For hours he stalked the streets, following paths dimly lit with candelabra across his mind palace atlas. His thoughts tumbled, a kaleidoscope in pieces, shattering into poisonous barbs against his sanity. The case he had set out to solve had dissolved. At the Royal Albert Hall he hadn't waited for Lestrade. He had slipped into the shadows, a phantom, cursing at his cowardice, his want, and his grief. All were innately problematic human things.

If he were a pirate, he was shipwrecked, grasping at the sand with sodden hands.

_Molly knows._

Relapsing would have been easy.

A scientific approach to calming the cacophony in his mind.

Behind a bankrupt News Agents at Whitechapel, he had paid handsomely for a 7% cocaine solution.

The promise of tranquillity fell into his palm, the pirate's treasure.

But then Molly had thwarted his thoughts.

Remarkable, intelligent, efficient Molly.

She stood, maestro of every instinct he'd resisted for years. The pathologist with the power of a Queen in russet red. The pathologist with the power to stop his breath with a single upturn of her lips. The pathologist who s_aw _him.

He couldn't do it.

With a bellow of frustration, he launched the solution into the Thames.

The pirate watched his treasure sink into the black liquid of London.

And hoped no one would ever find it.

The detective wandered the streets in search of a new harbour, a lighthouse, a coastline- anything to guide him to security. The Eastern wind rattled his bones. The rain soaked his ebony curls.

Eventually, he emerged onto a familiar street lined with identical houses. Onwards the stray pirate went, towards the door.

It was a dangerous decision. An action that could prove fatal. But, it was _necessary. _

The pirate raised a sodden hand and brought it down against the door.

"John!" Sherlock bellowed.

_Two knocks a second- knock knock, knock knock- twenty three seconds- knock knock- twenty four- knock knock- twenty five-_

With an ostentatiously loud groan beyond the partition, the door was wrenched open. "Christ Sherlock, it's 5am- You can't just-"

Then, John _saw _him.

Sherlock was drenched, shivering, wild desperation clinging to him like a second skin.

The shipwrecked pirate.

"Sherlock- _wha-"_

"You changed your fertiliser."

John did a double-take. "'Scuse me?"

"Your grass," Sherlock hissed, waving at the suspect green foliage to the left of the steps, "You've changed the fertiliser. Why?"

"W…What? Sherlock! It's bloody 5-"

"It's 5:18am. Answer the question!"

John's index finger rubbed his temple. He glanced over to the measly square metre of grass on the ground surrounded by tarmac; it was hardly a botanical garden. "Jesus, I don't know! We ran out of the old one."

"Why would you do that? John! I need this grass!"

"You need my…" He inhaled and went to close the door. "Sherlock, go to bed-"

Sherlock stopped it with one hand. "I needed it for my experiments, and you have just _contaminated_ the properties worth-"

"Experiments?" John expostulated, "What sort of experiments do you need my grass for at 5am on a bloody Tuesday morning?!" Then, he faltered, and became eerily still. His hands fisted, and he directed gunpoint focus to the ground.

Sherlock knew what he would say. It was what they all would have said.

"You're high."

"John-"

"…Christ! Sherlock! You promised!"

"I'm not high_. You're_ unobservant."

"Oh for fu-"

"John? Who is it?" Came the tired call from upstairs.

"Who do you think?!"

"Mary," Sherlock called, "John has contaminated my grass experiment! He changed the fertiliser!"

"Don't you dare-"

Mary emerged from the landing, yawning as she used the bannister to support her extra weight. Sleepily, she reached her husband's side, and placed a hand on his arm. "John, why did you do that? He's been working on this for ages."

John's eyes doubled, and Sherlock shot him the smuggest look.

"I…" The Doctor fumbled, "Sherlock's high!"

"I'm _really _not."

"Sherlock, love," Mary smiled tiredly, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

The detective grinned, a t_oo friendly_ grin. "I'd love one. Thank you, Mary."

Throwing John a trademark _told you so _smirk, he brushed past him and entered the Watson's household.

John stood, groaned, and shut the door.

* * *

_The Watson's have purchased two new throws. Six days old. Marks and Spencers, a purchase for longevity. _

Every time Sherlock visited the Watson's home, it was different.

New golden frames bore wedding photos on the mantlepiece. A new cuddly Ikea elephant in sat front of the television. Beside it, an unopened tummy time mat- _what's that?_\- sat in its box.

A nest ready for nurturing a child.

Sherlock was sat in Watson's living room. After much convincing, John was placated with knowledge of his friend's sobriety. Sherlock's dishevelled state was explained as a result of capturing a robber- a remarkably simple lie. Mary had insisted on taking Sherlock's drenched outerwear, so now the detective sat looking entirely out of place in John's _too short _dressing gown, and in a _horrendous pair of_ festive socks. John was trying to stay awake, and failing miserably.

As Mary walked into the room carrying two mugs, Sherlock moved a cushion – _how many does one household need? – _so she could sit. He took his tea courteously.

"Don't think you woke me up. This one keeps me up every night at this point." She pulled a face of feigned enthusiasm. "_Ooo, _which organ of mummy's should I obliterate tonight? Intestine, check. Ribs, check. Bladder, _definitely _check."

"She is the daughter of an assassin, I wouldn't expect anything less."

Mary giggled until her attention was caught. John's head was slipping lower, mug about to fall from his hands. "John- John, love, go to bed."

The Doctor roused back to life. _Much like a startled Labrador, _the detective mused.

"John, you're up in three hours for work. Go to bed, I'll watch the Man-Child."

"Ahh, um, yes… Sleep." John rose to his feet, kissed his wife on the head, and retreated upstairs.

Sherlock raised an informative brow. "You need to get used to that, you know."

"Mm?"

"For a military man, staying conscious is not one of John's strong suits. It's entirely detrimental to stakeouts, and, by default, _child-rearing."_

Mary grinned, "As you said, Sherlock. I was an assassin. Stakeouts are my second nature."

The pair shared a knowing look and simultaneously sipped their tea.

Companionable quiet enveloped them.

"So," Mary began quietly, "How close were you?"

Sherlock saw everything, Mycroft's disappointment, John's shouts, Molly's palm burning his cheek-

"I paid the dealer. I was _so close."_

"Jesus, Sherlock… Do you have anything on you now?"

"No." It was the truth, "I disposed of it. All of it. But-" The word caught in his throat, and he berated himself for the lack of competence.

"It's a danger night… So you came here." Mary finished gently. "As much as I'm relieved we set up Operation Fertiliser, I wish you could tell John."

"John's too dramatic Mary, we both know that."

Operation Fertiliser was the codename for Mary and Sherlock's private understanding. The week before John and Mary's wedding, he had almost relapsed. Mary had arrived at Baker Street to discuss the wedding cars- _a trivial thing-_ and found the detective hunched in the kitchen, needle braced above his skin. She hadn't overreacted, panicked, or scolded him. Instead, she calmly took the needle from his hand and led him away. For hours, they had sat together. She didn't ask for explanations and promised not to tell John if he didn't want him to know. No one had ever treated him with as much respect in that situation before. It was on that afternoon Sherlock Holmes realised how remarkable Mary Morstan was. He vowed to himself to always protect her and John.

The vow that had killed Magnussen was born from Mary saving his life.

As dusk fell upon London's skyline, he had finally spoken. They formed a plan. The next time it happened and he needed her, he would cite an experiment with fertiliser. They'd agreed, shook hands, and Mary had left, without another word.

They'd never mentioned it again.

Mary had hoped they never would.

"Sherlock," She began, "I won't ask you to talk to me. You don't need to provide explanations if all you want is a safe place. I know when information and sentiment collide your existence becomes quite unlivable-" Mary paused as Sherlock's hand twitched. "But, I am here. Not as a counsellor, or even a friend. Just a presence to hear."

Sherlock's breath halted.

_Thank God for Mary Watson._

Mary saw trauma sitting on the edges of his vision, like gargoyles leering on cathedral walls. Worry consumed her, but she didn't react.

An instinctive urge pulled at his nerves, begging him to tell Mary everything. To tell her that Molly Hooper had worked out his darkest secret. To tell her that his whole stomach cramped with revulsion at the sensations it caused him. To tell her oblivion was more calming than the thought of opening the door to those problematic human _reactions-_

There had to be a way to protect his pride and solve the issue. Sherlock Holmes was a man of science, who abided above the sentiment that grounded the masses. Information was his life source, not sex, and certainly not love. He was simply going through an ongoing state of shock after shooting Magnussen. Taking Magnussen's life had triggered trauma. And in response, his instinct was Molly.

Because Molly and Survival, to Sherlock Holmes, were one of the same.

He needed to retrace his steps and tackle the _Issue of Molly _from its source.

If anyone would understand, it would be the assassin.

He stole himself.

"To discuss this matter, I don't want to talk to Mary Watson."

There was a silence.

"What do you mean?"

"It is imperative I talk to the right individual." Sherlock lifted his hands into a temple, acquiescing her with inquisitive eyes, "I need to talk to _you, _not Mary."

As the words sunk in, Sherlock saw Mary Watson retreat in defence. Her arm tightening across her stomach. But her eyes sharpened, just enough. Sherlock had her attention. The assassin behind the glass raised their ears.

"I am Mary Watson, Sherlock."

"I need to discuss this matter with the sole person who I feel will understand. And that isn't Mary, it's _you."_

The assassin hesitated.

"Please," Sherlock added, "_Middel."_

After four seconds of deliberation, the woman shifted.

It was _fascinating_. Mary Watson diminished in moments. Fresh deductions emerged like a cool breeze over a valley. There were so many details he had never seen before, so much history, so much _talent. _Her back eased of pregnancy aches, her sympathy was replaced with clinical observation- not dissimilar to his own- and her limbs hardened with protection. Yet still, sentiment graced her. Sherlock finally understood why she had left this life behind. This remarkable woman had too much sentiment in her heart to live a life in ice.

She was a stranger, and yet he felt at home.

This was a scientific approach to return his synapses to full capacity. That was all.

Into battle.

"As you are aware, for twenty-six months of my existence, I was a dead man. And, you are also aware, that for the sakes of national security, most incidents that occurred during that time are classified. Of which I am not at liberty to discuss with you."

The assassin tilted her skull in understanding.

"However, I don't seek your counsel for analysis of my work in the secret services. Moreover, it's _personal."_

Mary's heart thudded. Though his words were guided with professionalism, she could see his effort. His voice was thick, gravelly, almost on a singular pitch. _Personal _matters were not often acknowledged by Sherlock Holmes.

The detective took another sip of his tea. "Contrary to popular belief, I did not spend my entire mission alone. Obviously, there were other agents and advisors encountered on every corner of the web. However… I found a companion, of sorts." His cheek clenched, his eyes drifted to an unseen space ahead of them. "For a total of eight months of my mission, I had them at my side. Once the mission was concluded, I desired to bring them back to London. Our relationship was…. Highly personal."

The assassins thought jutted to a halt.

She was grateful she was sat down.

"You were _intimate?"_

Sherlock hesitated- and Mary forgot hot to breathe.

"In what capacity?" He asked.

"…Physically?"

"No."

"Okay." Mary understood not to ask. _Focus, be clinical, don't be ruled by shock._ "Who was this individual? Were they an agent?"

Mary had seen Sherlock Holmes in the foray of cases before. She'd seen the electric energy charge his every artifice to the point she'd sworn he'd been glowing. When she'd shot him, she'd witnessed the energy spiral into lightning, before fizzling into ash. But he'd survived. And she'd never _seen _the ash.

Now, it radiated from his every pore.

It took him a long time to formulate the words, and she wondered if he was analysing them in his head, scanning them for emotional weakness, and correcting them before they proved safe enough to voice.

"They were a civilian informant. A faceless figure on the inside. I met them in the Istalif district of Kabul, Afghanistan. I was infiltrating a criminal operations Unit financed by Moriarty's network that was trading opiates…"

The assassin didn't know how long Sherlock spoke for. She never interrupted, never let his attention falter. His diction and pace never altered. His words fact, never emotional. Yet, they gripped her heart. What had happened to Sherlock Holmes was incredible. She couldn't recall meeting an agent with such a history before. Their story was so colourful, vast, and rich. It was a tale of legend, of beauty, of raw pain and love. Knowing that he had returned to London and never spoken of it broke her heart. She couldn't comprehend how he had found the strength to remain silent. When he'd almost relapsed before her wedding, she'd figured it was down to his changing life with John… But it was so much more. Understanding it now, she was floored at his resilience. It was a testament to his character.

Sherlock Holmes was magnificent.

As the story drifted to its conclusion, the sun was peaking above the horizon. A truly ironic occurrence, considering how the story ended.

A crystalline tear slipped down her cheek.

Her nerves were in shatters.

Sherlock didn't notice. A stranger would have observed his mannerisms as an aloof onlooker, not entirely engaged. But Mary saw past that. She observed his cerulean eyes bearing into an unseen distance as if replaying the incidents out in front of him in blistering detail.

Mary wondered if he was.

"It was eight days after they died that Mycroft infiltrated the Serbian cell. Thus, Sherlock Holmes returned to the living, and they dissipated into nothingness. For a while, I existed with symptoms of grief… I remember reuniting with John and he was so angry, and I couldn't fathom why. Because I knew, if they had walked back into my life I wouldn't care about the circumstances. I would have been overjoyed."

Outside, a distant car horn sang. A signal for the morning.

"…Sherlock, does John know-"

"No." Sherlock snapped, suddenly present, "And he won't."

"Why?"

"Because it's in the past. It has never impeded on my present. Those years, that existence I had, is gone. I am Sherlock Holmes now. And they are dead."

"…Then why are you telling me?"

Suddenly, Sherlock pushed himself upright. He paced towards the window with the curtains closed and inhaled softly. His hands folded behind his back. The image of British aristocracy.

He wanted to tell her about Molly.

But the words couldn't fall. The ones he found were a safety mechanism, as they often were. His lips curled, and he sought science. "It seems my brain has become unbalanced as of late, one of the neurotransmitters is slipping, whether it's norepinephrine, gamma-aminobutyric acid, or dopamine is to be debated."

"English please." Mary countered, with a small smile.

"…When I shot Magnussen, it triggered an unprecedented reaction in my brain. Memories I'd long buried of them resurfaced. Recently, I've been plagued with flashbacks. They're not in chronological order. Sometimes, I don't know how accurate they are. But they are there, in my brain, distracting me. I'm currently supposed to be on a murder investigation, and yet they're torturing me. My question is, have you ever experienced the same thing? You are the sole individual I feel may- God, help me- may _empathise."_

He was embarrassed.

Mary remained seated, brow knitted as she considered her response. It felt unnatural to be open about her past life. It felt like a betrayal of the steel she wore on her skin as Mary Watson. But she understood in that moment that Sherlock was exactly the same. They were entirely similar. She just hadn't realised how much before.

"During my active years, it was very rare that I sustained emotional trauma. I was trained not to. You had to, to manage the things I had to deal with directly. It became part of me to avoid sentiment at all costs. I convinced myself it was a weakness… But then, I left. And I became Mary Watson. And despite all my training, my professionalism, and my experience I felt _everything. _Every comrade I had lost, every person I had betrayed. I realised I was grieving for events that had happened years before… and it hurt. It bloody hurt."

Mary stroked her abdomen subconsciously and looked over to her friend. He was admiring her with scrutiny now, reading into her every gesture and breath. He was learning how to cope from her.

Suddenly, she realised what immense power she held, and her mouth ran dry.

"You see, people like me, we don't often live very long. Not many of us make it _past _retirement. Nevermind myself, who actively sought a new life. Realising the trauma I had had over the years is rare. I'm supposed to be dead, I know that. And despite everything, despite this little girl," Her eyes saddened, "One day I know it'll come for me. Death always comes for assassins. It's just a matter of _when_." A bitter smile lifted her eyes, "Many people would call it karma."

"That's how it was for me after I shot Magnussen." The detective admitted, "An accepted fate, for the life I had led."

"Yet you're still here."

"And so are you."

For a moment they observed a still air of mutual respect.

The Detective and the Assassin.

"What methodologies did you utilise to improve your neurological function after the trauma?"

Mary smiled, "If you mean what helped- then, well… It was John."

Sherlock stilled until he was as solid as marble.

Inside his mind palace, memories were emerging back into the present. And they were all Molly. Molly's lyrical laugh, Molly's smile as she moved the castle across the chessboard, Molly's weight in his arms as they danced, her breath against his lips in the dark, her sat in his windowpane in russet read reading his book, her sat in his pyjamas with a wondrous interest, her focus over a corpse, the hurt in her face as she told him she knew-

Suddenly, anger raised in him. This wasn't _fair, _he chided himself. He'd sought Mary for a solution from Molly Hooper, not to discover that by parallel she_ was _the solution? That was a hideous prospect. Molly was danger. She was sentiment. And he wouldn't- _couldn't-_ want her the way he did. It betrayed his whole rational judgement- he existed above that plain.

The want to comfort, to hold, to kiss- and God, _everything… _It was wrong. It had to be. An unnecessary distraction from the work. A reaction to trauma. That was all.

His mind sought more evidence, so he inquired a further question. His heart thudded against his gunshot scar.

"…And how was it with John?"

Mary breathed, and met her friend's searching gaze fully. In an instant, her expression warmed. A smile pulled on her lips, and her eyes brightened like daffodils blooming in spring. "Like colour and warmth. Like a tide I couldn't escape from. John became my lifeline, and he didn't even know... He did it without effort, with just a smile and a heart yearning to love. John Watson is the most beautiful human being I have ever met. He saved my life."

It was funny how a single sentence could provoke an oxymoron reaction from Sherlock Holmes. She saw the pallor of his face grow pale, his features tightening as if gripped by cold.

Mary rose to her feet. Something was wrong. Her words that she'd figured would be dismissed as unimportant hadn't been.

They had meant something.

There was a factor she was missing. It was more than the tragedies of his life that had almost driven him to relapse. There was something more present, something more _visceral._ "…Sherlock, you can talk to me, you know?"

"As I stated, the neurotransmitters in my brain appear to be-"

"Who's giving you anxiety?"

Sherlock's lips pursed, Molly's name begged to fall but it felt too private. Too dangerous. And shockingly- too _intimate_ to express. He ground himself for composure. "That's irrelevant."

"I don't think so-"

"It is, Mary. That's not the issue here."

"Then what is?"

Sherlock looked at her cuttingly, "Emotional attachment is a weakness, and it will always be. My past experiences have proved that. Sentiment is a defect... My life's ethos is the work. That's what keeps me breathing. Not trauma. Not memories of ghosts. Not-" _Not Molly Hooper, _were the words he almost said.

Mary sighed, "It'd really help me out if I knew who you were talking about."

"Irrelevant."

"When did it start?"

Sherlock frowned. When did it start? When did the ocean begin to shift? Was it when he held Molly in the dark? When they'd danced? Or was it when she asked if he was okay after shooting Magnussen? Or, perhaps, had it been earlier, when despite his conscious decision not to care he'd been relieved when she'd broken of her engagement? Or was it the night he'd returned to the living when his heart had raced at the mere thought of seeing her again? Or- perhaps- was it he'd jumped and submitted himself to death? With one more night in the living, he entrusted everything with her. And she hadn't just completed her task successfully, she had shone.

He didn't realise he hadn't spoken until Mary's soft voice entered the air.

"It's not… It's not the baby is it?" Mary offered carefully, "Because babies are scary, and can conjure up all sorts of feelings, even for people like us. They are the most dangerous pressure point. The atom bomb."

Sherlock pondered this.

Was Molly a pressure point? Was that was this was? She felt like a siren of safety- but that was the issue. A siren lured pirates to their deaths through their sweet songs, and Sherlock existed_ above_ that abhorrent calling. Even with _them, _he had.

Maybe the shift from orbit between with him and Molly was like a new life. _New-Molly. _He didn't know whether this analogy was better or worse.

Mary had judged his silence as her words being the truth. "You will keep her safe, Sherlock. You have nothing to worry about."

"…I want to hold her," Sherlock's cheek twitched at the immensity of admitting those words about Molly out loud, but found ease knowing Mary didn't understand the true intent. It was safer that way. "But my history has derailed me. I cannot let myself feel sentiment for people. It's dangerous. It can, and has, proven fatal to its recipients."

"But… Emotional attachment is _okay. _Yes, I agree sentiment is a weakness we must bear. But loving her will be the best thing you've ever done. And it's a love everyone will protect."

Sherlock bit back his tongue. He didn't love Molly, he didn't want to. But Mary was talking about baby Watson. But if he gave into his want for Molly, and allowed her to give into her want for him… Would the others protect it? Would they help him when the world fought against them?

_What an abhorrent thought, brother mine._

It was metaphorical, dramatic, and lacking in rationalism.

Mary's words should have been pointless… And yet-

He wanted Molly.

The evidence was overwhelming. There was no benefit in denying that fact anymore. His biological reactions to her were elementary, his mental reactions to her were phenomenal.

He wanted her.

He truly, deeply, wanted her.

But he was terrified. Because he'd experienced loss. Real loss. And he wasn't ready to go through that pain again. And, with his life, it was inevitable.

Subconsciously, his palms drew up into a temple against his chin, and his eyes fell closed.

Silently, Mary stepped close to him and drew open the curtains. Morning light blossomed across the living room. Her blonde hair lit up in a fair glow. Taking watch by her statuesque friend, she very gently took his palm. She felt his entire frame stiffen beside her as his eyes opened. But, she didn't stop. She took his hand and laid it against her stomach.

Together, detective and assassin looked out to London. The city stirred to life beyond their gazes. It was remarkable, Mary thought, how their lives had led them to this moment; Standing together as the sun rose, with Baby Watson between them. Mary had never considered herself able to have a family, to live a life that wasn't fraught with pain, and yet there they were. In John, Sherlock, and their mad world, she'd found a family. Her daughter would be part of them, too. John Watson had saved her, given her purpose, and given her life. Mary just hoped Sherlock would find his own path.

With everything he had gone through, Mary knew life would be incredibly hard without it.

Gently, the assassin rested her head against his arm.

"If my new life has taught me anything, Sherlock Holmes… It's that love is worth everything. I am grateful for every single turn in my career, because it's brought me here. It's brought me my husband, and my daughter. Don't be afraid of the fear, because it is a good thing… Fear will keep you strong. Fear will make you passionate. We may never escape the danger… But what is the danger worth, if not for a moment of love?"

A flutter danced across her stomach, directly under Sherlock's palm. The marble man stirred, eyes dropping to the spot.

And to her surprise, his thumb drifted across the spot affectionately.

And he smiled.

"Baby Watson will be a remarkable contribution to the species, I am sure."

Mary giggled, "Obviously. She is _my _child."

For a moment, silence encompassed them, decorated with only the pirouettes of her daughter against his palm. Mary watched Sherlock in awe. His eyes narrowed in fascination and wonder, raw care emboldened his frame. He looked vulnerable, open, and she couldn't believe it.

Suddenly, words were falling from her lips. A question. One she had promised herself not to ask. Doubt accosted her bones with every syllable. He didn't look up as the words fell. His attention was entirely on her daughter. Part of her wished he couldn't hear her. For it was hurtful, not her place, and-

"This companion of yours, what was their name? ...Were they male? Female? Not that it matters, ah God, sorry, I shouldn't-"

"Her name was Orzala." Sherlock replied, eyes unwavering, "And she was incredible."

Mary stopped breathing.

She was floored.

Then, upstairs, an alarm went off.

Immediately, Sherlock let go. He swept away from her with the countenance of a startled cat and bolted from the living room. The assassin stood in numb shock for a moment more, before chasing after him. Upstairs, John's footsteps emerged from the bedroom. It was too late. He wouldn't say any more. The rare moment of glancing Sherlock's Holmes' heart would be sealing at the seams with every second.

The detective quickly divested John's dressing gown for his Belstaff, and slipped his shoes on.

"Sherlock- wait-" Mary began desperately.

Sherlock unlatched the door, pivoted, and offered her an easy grin. "Thanks for the tea. I have a rehearsal to get to-"

That stopped her. "A rehearsal?"

"Ah. Yes. I have omitted that detail. I have joined the London Sinfonia as their second violinist to catch the killer of Katherine Tonnesen and Luke Yates. Duty calls- Well," He smirked, "_Murder_ calls. Goodbye Mary. Cheerio Foetus."

Then, he was gone.

The assassin watched the detective depart, a thousand questions clinging to her skin. Her body remained petrified in abject wonder.

_Her name was Orzala, and she was incredible._

"Who was that leaving?" John called, trotting down the stairs. "Was it Sherlock? Has he kept you up all this time-"

Mary thrust herself into his arms, winding him beyond talking. Her hands gripped at the worn fabric of her shoulders, and she burrowed her head into his chest.

She felt him still around her.

"…Mary, are you alright?"

The assassin almost sobbed.

The story Sherlock had told washed over her like ocean waves tearing over a ship. Every detail, every scene, every word now had a name. _Them _became _Orzala, _a woman from Afghanistan, who he'd fought to save. In a moment, she felt the detective's grief, the brutal reality of what he'd gone through cutting into her. In a name, it had become real.

But John couldn't know.

Sherlock trusted her.

So, the Assassin stealed herself, took a breath, and accessed training from years before. With skilled precision, she soldiered on. The assassin became Mary. A smile brightened her face as she eased away, and she pecked him on the nose. "Just saying good morning."

"And a good morning to you, dear." John chuckled.

Mary leaned in and kissed him soundly.

"Yeah, that was Sherlock." She told him after parting, "He's gone to a rehearsal. Something to do with the musician case. Apparently he's opted for second violin?"

_"Second?"_ John guffawed, "I doubt his ego can cope with that."

Mary laughed. "Let's pop the kettle on, Doctor Watson."

John turned back to the stairs. "I'll just throw some clothes on, then-" He paused, and stared at the radiator. Two black socks lay upon it. "The gits ran off in my Christmas socks!"

"That'll be a lovely surprise for the killer."

"A _lovelier _surprise for Sherlock when he realises." Countered John with a snicker, as he retreated up the stairs shaking his head.

Mary watched after him, and felt loyalty wash over her like morning sun. She would stand by Sherlock's secret. In a few hours, he had been more open than she imagined he'd been with anyone in years. In admitting his history, and his fears, a realisation had hit her. She just wished everyone had been there to witness it.

In denying sentiment, Sherlock treasured it more than any other man. Sherlock Holmes was painfully loyal, entirely devoted, and completely capable of love. That he couldn't see it felt like a curse. But, no- it was beautiful irony. His passion had the potential to sculpt words, compose music, and change the world. And that was beautiful.

Baby Watson was going to have the most perfect God-Father, she thought.

* * *

London rolled beneath his feet, the sound of wet tarmac against tires moving like undulating strings. The music of London filled his ears. Sherlock Holmes sat at the back of a taxi, entirely in his own thoughts.

In his hand, his phone lay open on his and Molly's text message feed.

He ached to see her.

But, he couldn't- not yet. He had a plethora of information to compartmentalise from the previous hours. His judgement instructed him that the method of proceeding was simple; cut Molly off to protect her. To protect them both.

_Cut communication with Molly, solve the case, return to normality._

And yet, the music of London began to shift. It lifted from the surrounding air and formed into an orchestra. A new song filled his synapses. Music he had never heard. T

he song was Molly Hoopers.

Oboes soared, flutes twirled, a French horn sang a romantic melody, beneath, a cello churned from the deepest depths of his want. His mind yearned to delve into it's sounds, to extract every vibration, and learn it's mysteries.

He wanted Molly Hooper. And he couldn't ignore it anymore.

Suddenly, words joined the symphony.

Mary's words.

But it wasn't Mary speaking them, no- it was Orzala, sat beside him in the mountains, watching the stars with illustrious emerald eyes. And he understood. She was giving him permission to let go. To be happy.

That was all she had ever wanted for him, after all.

_We may never escape the danger… But what is the danger worth, if not for a moment of love?_

* * *

**So, what do we think? Do we think he's finally, starting to gain clarity on his feelings?**

**Thank you so much for reading this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed the slightly different feeling within it. :-) Do let me know in the reviews box down below!**

**Also, thank you so much for your support. This week we surpassed 40 Followers and 20 Favourites which is incredible! I'm so excited to have you here.**

**Note- Middel is Dutch for 'Agent'. **

On a personal note, I would just like to express my care for each of you during this difficult time. I implore you to keep calm, stay safe, and look after one another (at a good distance!). As our small online community, I'd like to say that if you ever need to talk, I am here. If not on this platform, my Instagram is **'emily_doreen_',** please come say hello! Let's surround ourselves with positivity, send memes and animal photos, and just open more spaces for friendship during this time.

**This will pass, and we will get through this together.**

**See you at the next chapter. Sherlock joins the orchestra, Molly comes back into action… And, well, there is a grand performance ahead!**


	7. Of Mozart and Murder

**Hello everyone! I do truly hope, wherever you are in the world, that you're safe and doing well. I would like to thank you all so much for your response to the last chapter. I was floored at the reception it received. You're all incredible. **

**As promised, let's head into some drama... This chapter is a longer one, but make sure you stick around until the end. It'll be worth it. **

**A Reminder: Molly realised Sherlock was grieving. She confronted him, and they fought. Meanwhile, trying to locate Reo Takashi and Evangeline O'Brien, Sherlock has agreed to perform with the Royal London Sinfonia at the Royal Albert Hall. We pick up three days later, on the day of the concert. Let the music begin.**

* * *

**· **_Let's plunge ourselves into the roar of time, the whirl of accident; may pain and pleasure, success and failure, shift as they will – it's only action that can make a man.** – **Johann Wolfgang von Goethe_

* * *

_A spark blossomed into a flame; the flame grew into a fire. Oranges, yellows and reds dusted the black. I admired my handiwork and leaned back against the dry mud. _

_"You're good at that, for an Englishman." They commented, a melodious tula. _

_ "Do you suppose the English do not light fires by hand?" _

_"I presume they don't need to." _

_Quiet drifted over us, filled only by the flickering flames. I laid back into the rags beneath me and let my eyelids close. They throbbed with exhaustion._

_"Does anyone know you're alive?" _

_Their words ushered a stream of attention, but I didn't open for my eyes. For within my mind, images alighted in my peripheral. _

_An auburn ponytail in a white lab coat, a small hand in mine, a promise to kill me._

_"One person," I answered._

_I felt them slipping beside me. Body heat was essential in these climates, after all. I didn't need to observe them to know of their curiosity. It commandeered my deductive processes even in darkness._

_"Who?" _

_A lopsided grin. An adoring gaze. A tiny hand wielding a scalpel. _

_"Classified." I answered, "But… An ally. Someone I trust. Someone who killed me to save me." _

_Someone who loved me, yet never said the words out loud. _

_An owl stirred in the breeches of my thoughts and began crying into the night. It called for Molly Hooper. _

_And wasn't that strange. _

_It was past midnight, I thought, recalling the angle of the moon. In London, what time was it? Nine? Ten? Would Molly Hooper be sat in bed catching up on an abhorrent soap opera with Toby the cat by her side? Would she be starting the nightshift, preparing the first corpse on the gurney with doleful care? Perhaps she was in the arms of a man. Someone better than I. Does she smile as she's kissed? Does she still dream of me? _

_I am a ghost, after all. _

_I live in dreams._

_Beside me, the shuffling began again. I opened my eyes. They were propped up on one elbow, studying me. __Their emerald irises glowed, orchard green leaves in a sunsets rapture._

_"Only a soul full of love can kill to save a life." They mused wisely, "You must care for them." _

_I wondered if Molly knew I was alive; With resolution, I vowed next time I contacted Mycroft to make him let her know. It was the least she deserved._

_The knowledge that someone was waiting for me grounded my nerves, and I thrived on that vessel. Molly had become a harbour. A current to home._

_Wordlessly, they settled again by my side. _

_"Orzala," I began, "Despite the circumstances, I am grateful for your presence."_

_"May we be together a while longer," They closed their eyes, mouth curves in a mild smile, "Inshallah." _

_"Indeed, habibi." _

_Then we slept. _

_Two souls in the dark, bound by a fire's glow._

* * *

If nerves could be personified, Molly Hooper's would have been waltzing in Viennese ballgowns, pirouetting in voracious grandeur.

The pathologist glared at them.

Around her the whirring of the underground carriage filled her ears but didn't rustle her thoughts.

It was a route she had taken many times over the past decade. A twenty-minute excursion with a change at Green Park from the Victoria Line to the Jubilee Line that took her to Baker Street Station. The simple journey had inspired a vast array of emotions from her over the years.

The first time she'd visited Sherlock's home, her presumption that it had been a date had had her squirming. Later, she'd returned loathing the madman. He had wished to consult her over the rotting process of toes in brine. Once, at Christmas, he'd berated her appearance and it shattered her heart. Other times, she'd experienced happiness. Once, whilst writing for an academic journal_, _Bart's hadn't the correct equipment for her thesis' experiment. Sherlock had _spontaneously _invited her over. There, he was armed with a Chinese Takeaway and the equipment she needed. He never told her how he'd sourced it. But she'd been floored.

Often, people who knew of Molly's feelings for Sherlock called her crazy. But they didn't see him, not as she did.

But none of that mattered now.

The trepidation in her stomach trampled on those memories, reminding her forcefully of why she was heading to Baker Street now.

From her hands, her phone beamed.

**Baker Street. Come immediately. Dress Smart.**

\- **SH **

Quickly, she'd tossed a navy-blue skater dress- A charity shop steal from Oxfam- and headed out into the dusk.

On the surface, it was a simple request.

But nothing was simple between them anymore.

Their last meeting had lingered on her skin. Three days had passed, and yet it still consumed her.

Molly had called him out on his grief, and she'd been _right. _

Sherlock was grieving someone. Someone _important. _

A family member? A friend? A lover? Sherlock had called her _Habibi _in the dark at Hampton Court Palace, and then his face had drawn with fatal guilt. The pain was _raw._

Sadness dawned over her.

At the Royal Albert Hall, the realisation that he was grieving had led her to be reckless. She'd confronted him. And he'd been furious. But then, he'd reached for her.

Despite everything.

He'd rushed to her like a lifeline. Panicked, her hand had held his jaw, and she swore he'd leaned into the embrace. His whole body throbbed with desperation. She'd oscillated, stupefied in his arms. His forehead fell against hers. And, suddenly, his grief evaporated into sole focus on her.

Then, he'd let her go.

He told her he wasn't ready.

For what?

For _her?_

Shock had derailed her. It was too much. _He_ was too much.

So, she'd left him, alone, vulnerable, and hurt.

And for that, she chastised herself.

Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes were friends. No matter what had occurred, that was the staple matter. Yet she'd left because she was terrified. But it wasn't an excuse. It was a coward's way out.

God, she'd helped him fake his death, but she couldn't help him in _grief? _

She'd let him down.

The tube arrived at another stop and hordes of rush-hour commuters and tourists filled the carriage. Somehow, being part of the crowd made her feel better.

After that night, Molly thought he wouldn't want to see her. He'd blank her out and focus on the case. But no. He wished to see her now, and her stomach swam with anxiety.

Would he want to _talk? _

Talking and Sherlock Holmes didn't sound right.

Would he deduce her guilt, and accept her remorse as an apology?

Or he would he burst in, demand her assistance and never mention it again?

Molly dragged her palm over her cheek. She had to be strong. If he's grieving, he needs a friend to understand.

If it broke her heart, but protected him, she would commit her every breath to it.

With an aged screech, the underground train pulled into Baker Street Station. Molly wiggled out of the carriage. If there was one thing, she was grateful to be in London, it was small. A couple of minutes later, she ascended into the open air. A brittle cold ascended on upon her akin.

Molly readjusted her bag on her shoulder, fluffed her hair with her fingertips, and started towards Sherlock's home.

_Come on, Molly. _

Early evening sunset had descended upon London. Victorian buildings stood proudly. Pinks permeated the blue, and oranges blossomed over the antique roofs. It was beautiful. Before she realised it, the pathologist's feet were arriving at 221 Baker Street.

She raised her hand to the door.

And then, a sensation washed over her. The Viennese dancers halted under spotlights, watching her with an endearing sense of purpose.

_Your life is going to change tonight,_ her subconscious whispered.

Molly waited a moment more, then knocked on the door.

* * *

**Three Days Earlier**

If music were a piece of art, what manner of painting would it become? Would the harmonic security of Bach dictate a setting of evenness and warmth? Would Mozart be captured in a vast array of colours, swirling with probable balance upon a mystical plain? Would Brahms' expansive tessituras create a monumental canvas, probing the world's finest truths?

Sherlock Holmes was not a man to draw a metaphor where logic should prevail. Yet, there he was. In elegant hands, small collections of notes lay upon aged paper. Jagged, dark script with cutting edges and frantic dramatism.

The singular piece of evidence for the case of two murders.

The detective pursed a withering edge of manuscript between two fingers and ached for the whole symphony. It was entirely frustrating, to hear but a whisper of a monster that lurked in this score.

"…No. I don't recognise any of it." Reginald Tonnesen sighed, pushing a piece back to the detective.

Sherlock glowered. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes. I am certain."

It was mid-morning, and the winter sun tore through Baker Streets windows. Striking areas of light cut amongst the dark antiquity. Within it, three occupants mingled in consultation.

The Detective, The Detective Inspector, and The Conductor.

Upon leaving Watson's residence in the early morning, Sherlock had considered it imperative to return his focus to the case. Being able to voice Orzala's story to Mary and confess his want for Molly Hooper- although not literally- had eased the cacophony tenfold. For now, he could return his priorities to the work. There was a case afoot!

Quickly, he decided to reassess Reginald Tonneson's knowledge surrounding Katherine Tonessen and Reo Takashi before rehearsals commenced. Thus, he'd arranged this meeting. Reginald Tonessen sat upon the settee, anxiously looking between the manuscript. He hadn't slept, Sherlock observed. He'd been caught in the cold grip of grief, and the detective found himself surprised at their sudden similarities.

But that was a pointless thought, so it was dismissed.

Beside Reginald, Lestrade perched, mulling the evidence over with a hardened brow. That was a piteous endeavour, Sherlock understood. The only musical experience the Detective Inspector had involved karaoke bars and learning Three Blind Mice on the recorder in Year Two. His lips pursed.

"You know," Reginald began mirthlessly, "Katherine read your blog-"

"Your hand keeps dropping to your pocket," Sherlock stated.

"Excuse me?"

"There is something in there of sentimental value. You wish to check the object is there, but you want to keep it _sacred_."

"...Very impressive, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock remained blank.

With careful reverence, the Conductor reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver medal. Lestrade straightened. Sherlock stepped over the table without the need for social grace, focus drawn.

"It belonged to my late brother Henry. I always carry it on my person," Reginald shook his head sadly, "I suppose I must find an object of Katherine's, now she's-"

"What did your brother do?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Oh, you'll like this Mr Holmes… My brother served MI6 for more than thirty years."

The detective's brows raised, "What department?"

"Terrorism. His greatest work being against the IRA attack in 2000." Horatio supplied, "We were opposites growing up. He wanted to save the world, I wanted to _enchant_ it."

"Irrelevant." Sherlock announced. He walked back over the table and grasped a copy of Bruckner's Unfinished Symphony from his chair.

On his seat, another six scores from various works laid in a tall pile. None of them matched the excerpts from Hampton Court Palace. It didn't make _sense_. He flipped through the pages erratically.

"These are _definitely _the scores being used?"

"Absolutely, Mr Holmes. I told you, they're Bärenreiter." Reginald explained, putting the medal securely back in place, "Nothing has been altered. Whatever that man told Katherine to convince us to change-" Reginald's voice cracked, "We didn't. There is no threat here."

Sherlock Holmes almost scoffed.

"It is possible, Sherlock, that whatever Katherine knew died with her." Reasoned Lestrade.

"That's _precisely _the issue-"

"No. You know what I mean. Katherine told you, Reginald, that the scores were incorrect and needed altering. But it didn't happen. She didn't live long enough to carry out her plan. Ergo, this music isn't changed. And the threat is void."

The detective bristled. "Then why, Detective Inspector, did Reo Takashi expose himself to Reginald last night? Tell me, what purpose did it serve?"

As Lestrade's face flinched with confusion, Sherlock stood back. It was obvious. Reo didn't seek Reginald out of emotional intent, it was-

"Tactical." The conductor offered, catching Sherlock off guard. "It was tactical. He… He wanted to form a personal relationship with me. "That _bastard _killed my daughter, and he came to cover his tracks."

_The file landed on the mahogany desk with a resounding thump. _

_Mycroft's remained indifferent. He interlaced his spiny fingers._

_"This is incorrect." I bit, "You've removed them." _

_"Are emotions getting the better of you, Sherlock? Sweet Lord."_

_He was teasing me. _

_After everything he had done._

_I slammed my fist on the table. _

_"You have removed Orzala from my personal records! How dare you." The word splintered into acid, "She is the sole reason I'm still alive, and you- you-" _

_"Let her rest in peace?" _

_"You disgrace her legacy." My arms trembled in revulsion. "You're a vile interpretation of a human being."_

_"It was necessary to remove the blip on your system-"_

_"The blip?!" My voice raised, "I'm not ashamed." _

_"No." He looked almost amused, "I suppose you're not. But that's irrespective of our current predicament. She is dead. Do you really wish to bother John with your grief, of all treacherous things, after what you did to him? Haven't you put him through enough?" _

_Sorrow braced my joints. I couldn't breathe. _

_"Forget her. She becomes Them. And you move on." _

A hand holding his forearm assaulted his attention. Sherlock shifted, returning to the present, a sick sensation settling in his stomach. Beside him, Lestrade was craning his head to look at him completely. "Sherlock, you alright?"

Sherlock wrenched his arm away. "I'm fine. Simply accommodating space in my internal hard drive for the case."

The DI stiffened his upper lip. "A word. Now."

Before Sherlock could protest, Lestrade had stepped into the kitchen. Sherlock followed suit.

Behind them, Reginald Tonessen looked on, puzzled, but returned his attention to the scores.

"Right." Lestrade began lowly as Sherlock closed the shutter, "What's going on?"

"First John and now you. Should we start a Worrying Club? Ooh, I know, let's make _Mycroft _the Patron."

"Sherlock, please- You… You stilled. It wasn't like you were deducing, or in your mind palace. You were _lost._ Then, there was yesterday-"

"What happened yesterday?"

Lestrade looked appalled. "Molly Hooper called me in your stead about Reo Takashi. You disappeared from the scene of the crime before we arrived. I presumed you'd gone off after him, but no- You'd just _vanished. _Molly, too, for that matter. It's like you'd bloody eloped-"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock shot back, "I had an emergency."

"An emergency?"

"I can have those, can't I?"

"Not really, no."

"Lestrade-"

"No. Listen. Bloody hell," The DI jutted out a finger, "I bloody care about you, alright? You're a prat, but you're _my _prat. If there is something going on, you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

The sincerity in his eyes made Sherlock cringe. Why did people have to _care _so much? The only person that knew was Mary. He had his support system.

Molly was far more efficient by his side, if only his thoughts of her weren't tormented.

"I am stable," Sherlock lied effortlessly, "I assure you."

Lestrade deliberated for a total of four seconds, before dropping his shoulders in acceptance.

Sherlock decided to re-centre on task. That was a _pointless _delay to progress.

"We need to uptake the security at the Royal Albert Hall. There is going to be a murder on Friday."

Lestrade stilled, processing his words. "You can't be serious. You said yourself there is nothing in the scores."

"Use your brain, Lestrade. It's obvious."

"It is, is it?"

"Reo coming back was not just a _distraction_. If he wanted to truly remain hidden, he would have. So why else has he come back?"

"…Unfinished business" Lestrade finalised gravely.

"Whatever they started; they don't intend to stop-"

"Shit."

"Indeed."

"We need to cancel the concert," Lestrade advised, starting to pace, "This could be dangerous."

"Don't be absurd." Sherlock counteracted, "You've lost Takashi and O'Brien twice now. Scotland Yard have proven entirely useless in locating them. Considering that, the only solution is to lure them out. The concert provides us with ample opportunity to do so-"

"By risking civilians?" Lestrade expostulated, "We can't. Go investigate, but there is no way this will be approved. I will not sanction this-"

"Mr Holmes is right." A deep voice cut in.

Reginald had eased open the partition and was eyeing them both, determined.

"You need to lure them out." Reginald continued, "They _killed_ my daughter. If you stop this now there may be no more deaths. However, if you cancel the concert and let the criminals continue their charade, then God knows how many there will be." His hands fisted, "I cannot allow it."

Sherlock's cheek twitched, "You're a good man, Mr Tonessen."

"The phantoms shall be roused, and we shall be ready for them."

"But Sherlock," Lestrade protested, "What if they-" His hands rotated as he thought, "What if we can't pre-empt it, what if the music changes, because someone _improvises_?"

There was a moment of silence.

Then Sherlock Holmes guffawed. "It's Classical Western music, Lestrade. Don't be obtuse."

Reginald Tonessen harrumphed.

"I suppose I should get ready for rehearsal," The conductor announced, "I do look forward to hearing you play, Mr Holmes."

"And I look forward to catching your daughter's killers."

"Quite so."

* * *

_Your life is going to change tonight, her subconscious whispered._

_Molly waited a moment more, then knocked on the door. _

The door swung open.

"Molly!"

The Pathologist did a double-take.

"Come in, come in!" John Watson chuckled, ushering her inside.

Her nerves dissipated into sheer _confusion. _

Before her, Doctor John Watson was stood smartly. A dark green blazer stood upon his shoulders; a smart grey shirt was tucked neatly into suit trousers. He grinned, "Oh, I know, it's over the top, isn't it? Then again, it's not like we regularly go to these things is it?"

"Er-"

"Is Molly here?" A shrill voice cooed.

"Come on Molly," John continued, edging towards Mrs Hudson's flat, "I was just helping Mrs Hudson clear up dinner. She made us a casserole- Not that Sherlock ate a morsel, mind you- But it was _phenomenal. _Gino D'Acampo would be proud_-_"

Mrs Hudson let out a bark of laughter from the kitchen.

"John-"

"Don't worry, Sherlock will be down soon."

Stumped, Molly said nothing as she went into Mrs Hudson's flat. Immediately, she was accosted by a pair of motherly arms. The scent of English rose filled her senses.

"Ah, Molly! It's been too long, too long!"

Mrs Hudson sat her down at the dining table. As if by magic, a steaming pot of tea assimilated in front of her.

The matriarch of Baker Street swooped to the opposite seat, rested one elbow on the table and placed her chin upon it. "So, still beating my lead tenant at chess, are we?"

Caught off guard, Molly grinned shyly.

"That's my girl. John!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed towards the Doctor who was stood at the sink, "Do use the Fairy Liquid. I tried Tesco's own brand and-" Her face puckered, "It was _not _the same."

"Aren't you going to help me?" John called, exposing his hands covered in pink daisy rubber gloves.

"On your life, John Watson." The landlady teased, "It's Fatherhood training."

Molly bit back a stir of laughter. "It isn't long now, is it? Until Mary is due?"

"Days," John replied, reaching for another plate. "I keep my mobile on me like a third arm now. Especially since Sherlock's kept me out every day since Wednesday."

S_ince the day after we fought. _

Molly's stomach dropped. "Oh?" She asked breathlessly, "Why's that?"

John placed a soaking plate on the draining board and quickly came to sit beside Mrs Hudson. "Well, it began on Tuesday. Bloody 5:30am, Sherlock rocks up at our house, banging on about fertiliser." He frowned, "Yep. My thoughts exactly. Anyway, Mary lets him in- _Of course,_ she does- and he stays until first thing. I buggered off to bed quickly, so I missed what they spoke about. But come the morning, Mary begins _not-so-subtly_ pushing me in Sherlock's direction."

Molly steeled herself. _Sherlock left, and arrived at Watson's hours later? What did he do in that time? God, what did I let him do? _

"So, later in the afternoon I get a text from Sherlock demanding my presence at a crime scene in Croydon. And Mary _demands _I go." The Doctor sighed, "Sherlock's had me at his beck and call ever since. I think they plotted it."

Mrs Hudson chuckled.

"No- Seriously," John defended, "I think Mary's sick of me in the house! And our baby hasn't even arrived yet!"

"But," Molly interrupted, "...What about the musician case? The two murders?"

John raised his brows, surprised. "The cases he brought me on were threes, one s_carcely s_craped a four… He's been filling time in-between investigating at rehearsals. He's playing for the Royal Sinfonia tonight, Molly. That's why you're here."

_Sherlock has brought me here for the case. It's for the case. _

"Oh… I didn't know."

"That boy," Mrs Hudson moaned, "So forgetful with those things."

"Mrs Hudson where have you put my-" A baritone voice boomed, charging down the stairs. "-Bowtie?"

For a split second, the air transformed.

In Molly's mind, scenes replayed. Their fight- his hands on her waist- the wounded emptiness of his eyes- their intermingling breaths, a heartbeat apart-

Little did she know, but the Detective saw everything in a single deduction. And it stunned him, because his mind had taken the exact same path.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson squealed, forcefully snapping the pair into reality, "You look so handsome!"

As reality had rushed back to her, Molly took in Sherlock's clothing. Before her, the marble man stood clothed in a jet black trimmed suit. Molly fought back a blush at his open collar and the freshly shaved delicacy to his skin.

The Viennese dancers began reaching out to the Detective, inviting him into their arms.

_Treacherous thoughts._

The Detective poised a brow at Mrs Hudson. "I suppose in some cultures my current appearance can be deemed to _attractive._" The word was formed with repulsion.

Mrs Hudson manifested at his side. _When had she moved? _She wrapped her arms around his waist like a tree trunk. "Ah- You look like James Bond! If I was thirty years younger-"

"Who?" Sherlock questioned, visibly puzzled.

John guffawed, "Surely even you know who James Bond is-"

The Detective stepped out of Mrs Hudson's embrace, taking one firm stride towards Molly with ardent professionalism.

"Ah! Molly, I am glad you are here."

And he _was_. It was biological. Elementary. Yet he couldn't help but notice how _lovely _she looked. The pathologist was poised in a knee-length navy skater dress with black tights and tiny heels. Her hair was pulled in a loose bun. A haphazard job, done in a rush. But somehow, it suited her more. Molly Hooper's beauty was in simplicity. The horrendous colours and layers she prided herself in often camouflaged her, when they needn't so. But it was creative, and it was _her. _And truthfully, he admired it.

_Why must you consider such trivial things? Focus!_

A call for action sounded in his thoughts. To dismiss her. To talk to her. To make love to her. _Anything._ But an action, none the less. With compunction, the Detective acknowledged the window for making that decision was drawing in. Soon, it would be time to decide.

Molly's jaw tightening arrested his attention back to the present.

"...Why am I here, Sherlock?"

"The case," He replied, "I am playing tonight. Every instinct is telling me there will be another murder. You are to be witness."

"Witness?"

"Of course. If there is to be a corpse tonight, I would much rather have my pathologist on hand."

"Aren't you going to try and stop it? The… Murder?"

"Naturally."

Mrs Hudson disappeared and reappeared with a long piece of rich black cloth in her palm. Sherlock took it from her with a sophisticated swoop and began looping it around his neck.

Molly continued, "Then _why_ do you need me?"

The Detective wrapped the bowtie effortlessly, adjusting it on his collar as a King would a crown. He smirked.

"Professional precaution."

Molly's cheek twitched in amusement.

"Oh, Sherlock," John began quickly, "Our taxi's here. Are you ready?"

"For attempted murder? Always."

* * *

If it wasn't for the almost certain impending murder, Molly would have attested it was going to be a pleasant evening.

Herself and John were off to watch Sherlock perform in one of the finest concert halls in the country. As the taxi pulled around the back of the Royal Albert Hall, Sherlock had swooped out like a lynx whilst John was paying.

Molly got out of the car, meeting the Detective pulling his violin case from the boot. This scarce moment was the closest to _alone _she'd had with him since she'd left him alone. Anxiously, one heel bobbed against the tarmac.

Until he flicked his head to her. "Try not to fall asleep during the Bruckner, it's dreadfully dull. I daydream about biological weapons usually to pass the time."

Molly giggled

"The Mozart is more palatable." Sherlock continued, "The Soprano is horrendously over dramatic in the face, but her German diction is elementary. Test your fluency if it isn't too distracting from looking for signs of suspicion."

"Werde ich mein Bestes geben." Molly replied.

_I will do my best. _

Sherlock's cheek twitched. He closed the car boot and started walking away.

Molly panicked. She had to say something. _Anything. _

_"Er, Sherlock-" _

Suddenly, Sherlock span. His head dipped to her ear.

"Don't apologise. Focus on the case. And don't worry. We're okay."

As quickly as it had happened, he let her go. He strode off, Belstaff billowing behind him.

Molly hung in her spot for a moment, stunned.

_We're okay. _

"Break a leg!" John shouted.

Molly flinched; she hadn't heard him leaving the taxi.

Sherlock halted, rolled his eyes at such a ridiculous idiom, and left.

"Git." John muttered.

* * *

Molly had fretted that entering the concert hall would have torn at her composure with memories of her and Sherlock's incident a few days prior. And though her heart lurched, John was delightfully distracting. As they made their way to their seats in the stalls, he recalled some of the crimes he and Sherlock had solved during the week. His whole demeanour was captured with flavourful dramatism. He was a true storyteller. It made her repress a smile. John Watson had come on so much from the wounded solider she had met years before.

"Excuse me, sorry-" A nervous laugh, "Oops! Pardon me, sorry-"

Molly turned. Coming towards them was-

"Greg!" Molly exclaimed.

The Detective Inspector was stumbling towards them, stepping awkwardly over other audience members. The moment his eyes landed on Molly, he waved a large piece of paper.

"This place is a bleeding rip off! This programme cost me fifteen quid!"

He collapsed into his seat.

Behind him, an elderly couple were muttering in disgust.

Molly pressed her fingers against her lips, John not so discretely sniggered, and Greg huffed.

"…I didn't realise you were coming." Molly commented.

Lestrade sighed, "It's all business, I'm afraid. May as well stay for the tunes."

_All business. _

He's undercover. They all were. Molly Hooper suddenly felt heat rush over her. She was one of the _legs _team tonight.

John leaned over to the pair, "Isn't it you, Molly, who suggested we do more things as a group? Embrace our _social relationships _more?"

Lestrade smirked, "We're friends with Mister _Told-You-So._ This is as social as it gets".

Then, around them, the lights began to descend into darkness.

Inside Molly's mind, memories replayed: The music scrolls they'd found in Hampton Court Palace, Luke Yates' cold body strewn on the ground, Katherine Tonessen convulsing amongst screaming history.

The Viennese dancers grasped masquerade masks and drew them over their faces. A symbol of her mission. To help prevent a murder.

"Enjoy the show," Lestrade said quietly.

Molly swallowed.

Suddenly, percussive claps ripped through the air.

The musicians began to process onto the stage.

It looked like Chess pieces being assembled upon a board, all statuesque in black and white. They reached stands and waited for the conductor. And amongst them, was Sherlock Holmes.

He stood, an obsidian jewel. He didn't smile, but neither did he frown. Though the minimal colours covered him, his eyes sparkled. They drifted across the audience, investigating, deducing.

Then, for the briefest second, his eyes landed on hers.

_I know a grieving man when I see one._

_We're alright._

He blinked.

The players took their seats. Molly shuffled, having completely missed the conductor walking out.

Reginald Tonessen stood before his players, willing down tangible grief in his chest. In the wind section, a seat was left empty. Upon it, a single white lily was laid. Baton in one hand, he looked to the seat, so empty yet just _so full. _

"For Katherine." He whispered.

Then, with the regiment of a soldier on the edge of the trenches, he raised his arm, breathed, and struck downwards.

Music imploded into the air.

* * *

The first half went off without a hitch. Sherlock was right, the Bruckner _was _boresome. Molly had stifled chuckles at the men either side of her. If it hadn't been for the case, she swore they would have been snoring through the rafters before the first movement had finished.

From what they could see, there was currently no sign of threat. It lingered over them like a thick fog. Sherlock could be wrong. Katherine's murder could have been the end of it. Whatever _it _was.

Unease dripped over her skin.

But the time was short-lived, for they retook their seats, the players braced their instruments, and they played on.

Helplessly, Molly sank into the music, enchanted by the velvet timbres around her. And- God help her- Sherlock was _captivating_. Molly found herself entranced by his eyes flicking between the conductor and the music, by the firm digits dancing across the strings. Yet, despite his precision and clarity, Molly knew he didn't belong there-

For he played like a virtuoso.

There was an elegance in his movements, an extra emotional pull on vibrato, an extra lean into phrases that could only come from a lifetime of playing in solitude. Occasionally, his eyes closed just as a note sang out into the farthest reaches of the hall. He was absolutely extraordinary.

The Concerto finished.

The musicians turned their pages, Reginald Tonessen pressed a handkerchief against his brow, and the audience applauded.

Whilst most instrumentalists offered muted smiles of gratitude, stone eclipsed Sherlock's.

"He's frustrated," John remarked quietly.

Molly bit her lip, waiting for the-

A door opened against the darkness.

A woman stepped out into the stalls.

No one took notice. Except Molly Hooper.

For Molly knew that woman. Molly remembered her blonde tresses twirling as she danced with Sherlock, her sickly-sweet singing in the pitch black… Her running away from Katherine's body, Sherlock on her tail.

Evangeline O'Brien slipped into the audience, taking a seat as if she'd been there all along.

On the stage, a singer had stepped out of the wings greeted by rapturous applause. It was a woman with pinned black hair in a flowing royal blue gown. The woman bowed languidly.

"Who's that singer?" Lestrade wondered, pulling out his programme, "How do you pronounce that? Fanya-"

"O'Brien is sat over there." Molly frantically whispered, "Go get security."

The Detective Inspector faltered, meeting Molly's eyeline.

The moment he understood, he pushed to his feet and swept through the row without a single word of apology.

John stirred, "Molly-"

"Go backstage. Get someone to stop the concert-"

"Who-"

"Anyone." She hissed, "_Now." _

John made a move to stand, "What about you?"

"I'll investigate." She shot back, "Go, John."

The Doctor's body tightened into that of a soldier, and off he went.

Then, with a fiery burst, the orchestra shot to life.

The raven-haired woman bristled with energy, and began to sing, _"Tiger! wetze nur die Klauen, freu' dich der erschlichnen Beut…"_

The words stopped Molly in her tracks.

_Tiger! Sharpen your claws, rejoice in the seeming prey._

Immediately, Molly scanned her surroundings. Two rows behind Evangeline O'Brien was an empty seat. Molly took a breath, grounded herself, and stood.

Sherlock had his eyes squarely on her.

Molly hardened her gaze and flicked a brow in O'Brien's direction.

Sherlock understood immediately.

He stood and barreled into the wings.

Reginald Tonnessen faltered, so did the audience. But he soldiered on.

_Sherlock Holmes is a fine detective. He will solve this. _

Molly crept towards the empty seat. Members of the public protested, but she remained discreet. Quietly, she slipped into it.

Craning her head, her vision landed on an item tucked to the side of the O'Brien's lap.

A device, open and running- _something. _Small waves flicked up and down the screen.

The orchestra quietened, then burst into a fire of sound.

On the screen, the waves replicated the sound exactly.

_Luke wasn't right. I thought he was, but he wasn't. _

Evangeline was watching the soprano hungrily.

_What was this? What was the music in the palace? What were they after?_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes raced through the dark wings lit with blue lights and reflective tape. He_ was right._ This peculiar case was about to deliver.

_Focus. _

His survival instincts called to him, imploring him to go to Molly. To get her out of harms way. But it was irrelevant. Though many people perceived her as timid, her heart was cultivated in roaring flames. She could handle herself.

_Focus. _

Noiselessly, he pivoted around a corner, dipping into the precipice of stage light. The point where the wings met the stage on the other side from where he'd began. For a moment, he observed the singer, singing with the artificial anger of a tyrant.

"Well, Mister Holmes," A polite voice began smoothly, tinted with the twang of far Asia, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Sherlock Holmes turned and stared directly at Reo Takashi.

"You think you can stop it," Reo shrugged his shoulders "You are sorely mistaken."

"Oh. Really?" Sherlock feigned hurt, stepping forward "I truly thought I could this time-"

Sherlock swept, grasping Reo's arm twisting it and pushing him into the wall.

"-Silly me."

Behind them, the orchestra soared.

"You're so silly, Mister Holmes," Reo bit, "Thinking the answers lay in the scores. Oh, yes, we've seen you investigating. You've got this all wrong."

"Tell me." The Detective demanded.

"Well," He began with a laugh, "You think music is contained on paper. It's not. Music is emotion. Music is power. Music is living in the _moment."_

Suddenly, Lestrade's words pounded through his skull.

_What if we can't pre-empt it? What if the music changes, because someone improvises?_

* * *

The music slowed but didn't end.

It didn't ease Molly's nerves. It heightened them.

There was no sign of Sherlock. Nor John. Nor Lestrade.

Molly felt like a sitting duck. There had to be something she could do.

The strings groaned; the oboes answered the soprano's phrases. Then, strings began to pulse. The reflective expression on the sopranos face began to evolve into something else, something primal, something d_etermined- _

Then, she sang something incredibly wrong.

The orchestra burst back into flames.

A usual spectator would have thought it was a simple mistake.

But her face had been blown with triumphant confidence.

It wasn't _wrong. _It was _something else. _

Evangeline O'Brien glanced down at the screen, studied it for a moment, then shook her head-

_She wasn't right. _

"Stop!" Molly yelled, throwing herself to her feet.

Evangeline jumped.

For a split second, the two women met each other with stormy gazes.

Then Evangeline O'Brien lunged from her seat.

Molly sprinted after her.

The soprano kept singing, and the music played on.

* * *

_Someone was going to improvise, _Sherlock's mind shouted, eclipsing his every sense, _Who? When? How? _

"You left the scores." The Detective stated, "In the Palace. _Instructions_."

"Not instructions, no." Reo sounded pitiful, "Katherine _almost _figured it out. She was very clever. It was a shame she got scared and told her dad. 'Oh, the scores are wrong! They're wrong! So stupid, we had to kill her for it!'" Reo laughed, a sharp biting sound, "She thought they were instructions too. What is it with classical musicians, always thinking the answers are on paper?"

"If they aren't instructions, then what are they?"

"Oh, you're lost now, aren't you?" Reo chuckled darkly. "The Great Sherlock Holmes is _confused."_

"Tell me!"

"Ooh! Aren't you meant to work it out on your own? Isn't that what you _do?_"

Sherlock grunted, pushing the man further into the wall. His synapses shot and fired vast configurations.

"Just because we got rid of Katherine, didn't mean her music couldn't play. There is always another volunteer. Always."

Outside, foreign notes scratched Sherlock's ears.

The soprano had sung something wrong, _incredibly wrong-_

_"Stop!" _

It was Molly.

Blistering coal scorched his bones.

Reo twisted and landed a fist squarely in Sherlock's abdomen.

The detective buckled.

Reo disappeared into blackness.

Sherlock Holmes growled in discomfort, hauled himself to his feet, and shot after him.

* * *

Molly Hooper swore she had never run so fast. Adrenaline flourished through her every limb. Evangeline O'Brien escaped backstage. Luckily for Molly, she had been there days before. She remembered her way through.

"Stop!" She shouted.

Ahead of her, the blonde woman dashed through an old door. Molly went in after her.

To the sound of a gun clocking a few feet away.

Ice-cold fear exploded through her every vertebra.

Evangeline O'Brien extended a small pistol in her direction.

"Don't think I won't do it."

Molly Hooper frantically sought for a solution but drew a blank. Her hands traced behind her, for something, _anything. _

When they brushed against the wood, Molly grasped the object in her hand, drawing it in front of her defensively.

It was a timpani mallet. It was_ useless._

Evangeline gripped the pistol tighter, "This has got nothing to do with you. Leave me, and I won't shoot."

Molly clawed for words-

The door burst open.

Two figures fell into the room. Fear and relief grasped her all at once, for it was Sherlock and Reo Takashi. Then men were brawling, scrapping, fighting furiously. Barely a hit was landing, however, for they were both agile.

The dancers in Molly's brain gasped in melodramatic favour.

"Reo!" Evangeline shouted, tossing her gun.

The man didn't notice, and the weapon clattered onto the floor.

A visceral storm consumed Molly Hooper. She launched across the room, throwing towards a hanging cymbal.

She did the only thing she could think off.

With the might of a warrior, she thwacked the mallet against the brass.

The metal roared.

All three spectators jumped.

Reo slipped out of Sherlock's grasp and dashed to Evangeline.

Molly Hooper swiped the pistol and pointed stretched her arm towards them.

The Detective knelt where he'd landed, completely s_tunned. _

"Stop fighting," The pathologist demanded, mallet in one hand, pistol in the other, "I'm a pathologist, I know where to land a fatal blow."

* * *

On the stage, the music was tumbling to close. The strings rolled and twisted, the brass churned-

"Stop the concert!" John Watson yelled, charging on the stage.

Reginald Tonessen turned like a rocket. "What is it? What's happening?"

"Stop playing. _They're here._"

From the other wing, Lestrade raced to the soprano, and grasped her arm-

"What the hell are you doing?"

The Detective Inspector pulled out his ID, "Scotland Yard. I think you're about to be murdered. If you would come with me-"

The woman paled, "Wha- What-"

"Save your questions for the station."

* * *

_"Give me the gun." I spat, in a voice not my own. _

_"Don't make me." They expostulated. "That bastard got what he deserved. I was protecting them. You're going to kill me!" _

_They dropped to the ground, bent their body, and began to pray. A prayer I'd never heard. _

_"What's your name?" _

_The prayer stopped. _

_"...Orzala." _

_Their eyes lifted to mine, and emerald thwarted me. I searched for recompense, regret, or fear, and found nothing. Their determination pulled my interest like nothing ever before_.

_She wasn't afraid. _

_How was she not afraid? Who was she?_

For this evenings mission, Sherlock had considered thirteen different routes the events would take.

This wasn't one of them.

His nerves throttled, his synapses short-circuited, his heart shuddered. It stole his breath, his wits-

For he'd known Molly Hooper was deceptively strong. A warrior in a pristine lab coat. Quiet, unseen, completely _glorious. _But-

_This isn't her, _Sherlock thought. Molly didn't _do this_. She was his harbour of safety, yet there she was, undeterred to protect him and bring justice to the bodies she'd opened in her mortuary. The fire in her eyes became her with such dexterity one would swear she was glowing.

He was speechless.

And utterly terrified.

An Eastern wind ghosted his skin. Orzala's ghost knelt by his side. He felt the pistol braced in her olive palm against his thigh. Sherlock recalled her face, scorched in triumphant fury as she'd fired the gun and-

"Is she afraid?" Orzala whispered, in awe, "I hope so. Fear would have saved me. ...I hope it saves her."

The wind turned West, and time resumed.

"Molly." Sherlock started, panicked. "Give me the gun."

_Be different. Be afraid. Please. Please, Molly._

Beneath the steel courage, fear flashed in the edge of her irises.

_Thank God. _

For she feared him raising the gun, of memories of Magnussen breaching his present, of grief controlling his actions.

_Breathe._

_Be careful, _her deep brown eyes implored him.

_Control._

After delberation, she passed him the pistol.

He didn't raise it.

He didn't need to.

He'd simply _needed _it out of Molly's hands.

_Focus. _

The Detective assumed his stance, one of a keening predator between the cornered couple. "Well," He began formally, "I suppose it is apt we formally introduce ourselves to one another. I'm Sherlock Holmes-"

Evangeline glanced between Reo and the Detective, "I'm-"

"A murderer." Sherlock finished. "And you're about to be arrested. Two counts of murder and another of _attempted_ murder," He hissed through his teeth, "Ah, it's elementary. Truly."

The criminals stood back, affronted.

Sherlock leered.

Then, they looked at each other.

And smiled.

"He doesn't get it." Evangeline simpered sweetly.

"No." Reo responded. "He's been confused all evening."

"Sherlock-" Molly began.

He flashed his forearm upright to shush her.

"Go on then. Indulge me." He flashed a charming grin, "Seeing as you're so proud. _Tell me what I got wrong. _The scores left at Hampton Court weren't instructions for players. No, they appear to be improvised. So, what _are_ they?"

The couple stared him down, unashamedly challenging him.

"Sherlock," Molly began quietly, "O'Brien had a device, it was _listening _to that woman. When she sang, she was checking it-"

"Whatever for?" Sherlock questioned, directing a pointed gaze to the couple. "How do you get the musicians to do it? Reo slept with Katherine, obviously love the motivator. Liam, the drummer was convinced to kill Luke Yates. Whatever you said to him, he believed to _death_. But he didn't kill him, not really. It was you."

Reo let out a hoot, "Two serial killers? God," He laughed, "You think this a domestic crime?"

"That's precious!" Exclaimed Evangeline.

"We did a good job, sweetie."

"A very good job."

Sherlock's jaw clenched, "Cover it how you wish. Your lives end here. Your freedom has perished. I caught you. No more musicians will suffer."

"Fat chance of that!" Evangeline cackled.

Molly looked to Sherlock worriedly.

The blonde sobered and languidly wrapped her arms around Reo's waist. "I guess we weren't right after all, dearie me."

"Don't worry. It'll be worth it. For the music will play. And the crows will sing-"

"_Hands above your head!" _

With a victorious cry, security, Policemen, Lestrade, and John burst into the room. They swooped to the criminals, wrapping their arms behind their backs. Lestrade stormed to them. "Evangeline O'Brien and Reo Takashi, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned…"

* * *

Rain beat upon the tarmac.

Blue lights shone upon the wet blackness. Standing outside the Royal Albert Hall's stage door, Molly was taking refuge under the small cover from the rain. Police journeyed back and forth. It was freezing, but she welcomed it. Her whole body burned from the adrenaline that had consumed her.

After Reo and Evangeline were arrested, Molly had given her statement straightaway, not wishing to forget a single detail.

The Detective himself hadn't offered her a single word. He'd simply scanned her three times over, nodded, then proceeded to walk Lestrade and John through the evening in cutting detail. They were inside now, revising evidence. Working, deducing, analysing. His aloofness unnerved her, because in there, in that moment she'd raised the gun- She swore he had looked at her like never before.

With glorious salvation, the Viennese proclaimed it was love.

But that was simply incorrect. Sherlock Holmes _didn't _love. He was passionate, driven, and adoring, but only to the level of deepest care.

The intimacy in her eyes had short-circuited her heart. And she wasn't sure it would restart ever again.

"You're freezing."

Molly froze, clamped her eyes shut. "...I'm fine, Sherlock."

"No, you're not."

She heard an object being placed upon the ground. Then two hands landed on her shoulders, and she flinched. Sherlock didn't hesitate however, he gently pivoted her. With cutting dexterity, his cerulean eyes wandered over her.

"Liar." He muttered and removed his coat.

"Sherlock, you don't have to-"

"No need for social pleasantries, Molly. I insist."

Holding her breath, he wrapped the coat over her shoulders. His warmth and scent consumed her. Pine on a Winter's morning.

Then his hands reached for hers. His was ice cold against the fire of hers. Slowly, he eased them around until they reached the collar. He looped them around the thick fabric, and let them go, so she was holding it herself. It was devastatingly gentle.

"It wouldn't be necessary," He explained pointedly, "But your shoulders are exceptionally narrow."

Molly stared at him, floored.

"You caught two murderers' attention by whacking a cymbal tonight, Molly."

"I did." Molly's lips tightened, "It was the finest musical performance I have ever given. The criminals were rather _arrested _by my emotional interpretation."

Sherlock stilled.

Molly stilled.

Then, simultaneously, they chuckled darkly.

"God, that's terrible," Remarked Sherlock, "Even for you."

"It is my speciality," Molly replied eloquently.

"Right you two," Lestrade's voice announced as he came out of the door, "John's just finishing off with his statement. But I'm off. The scene is cleared. We're taking the soprano into custody for questioning." He turned to Sherlock, "I'm glad we caught those two when we-"

"Greg," Molly interrupted, "That device Evangeline used, has it been taken in evidence?"

The Detective Inspector frowned, "Device? What device?"

"The device she used to tell if the singer was right… It looked like a phone, but I'm not sure."

"They didn't find anything on her," Lestrade explained slowly, brows snaking in confusion, "Nothing at all."

"But I chased her," Molly continued, "She couldn't- no, there was nowhere she could have got rid of it."

Lestrade blinked, "The police are doing another sweep. I'll let them know it's not been located. They're good-"

Sherlock snorted, Lestrade glared.

"They _are_ good. They'll find it." The Detective Inspector clasped his hands together, "Right. I've got a singer to question. What a bloody weird night it's been. You coming to the station with us Sherlock?"

"Not in the police car."

Lestrade sighed. "Alright. Catch us up though, won't you?"

Sherlock flicked a brow in confirmation.

"Right. See you in a bit. Night, Molly."

"Goodnight." Molly smiled shyly, waving him off.

The Detective Inspector departed into a police car.

"This isn't over." Sherlock stated mutely, as the car vanished.

Molly turned to look at him. "Sherlock… You caught them. You saved a woman tonight. Those things they said, they were just taunting you-"

"No," He replied, voice gravely low, "They were inviting me to play."

For a moment, London drifted into quiet. Several more police cars drifted away. The sound of rainfall bouncing on tarmac filled their ears, decorated with the ornamentations of London's cars, carrying many a lowly man home.

And in that moment, Sherlock watched Molly.

The pathologist was far too small for his monstrosity of a coat_. _The fabric finished by her heels, nearly touching the floor.

His soul clenched with unwanted feeling.

He was utterly confounded by this unique woman. In the space of mere weeks, Molly Hooper had sunk into his synapses, sang her sweet song, and enraptured him. It was a biological attraction, a basal human response to their recent proximity, the adrenaline, his grief. But he couldn't entertain her romantic ideologies. It was a selfish, dangerous pursuit that would lacerate both their hearts in time.

When Molly had gripped the gun, the fear that had struck him was inhuman.

He'd seen Orzala in her. And that hadn't happened before.

He'd _hurt _Orzala. He'd dragged her life on a trajectory she'd never wanted to appease his desperation for a companion in the bleak wanton of his mission. And as a result? She'd died. The ash of her demise still sat in his lungs, and it would never abate.

Molly was different. He couldn't risk changing her. He couldn't-

"Were you afraid, Molly?"

His words shocked her, her brown eyes looked over him in question. "...Terrified."

"How did you do it?"

Molly blinked several times, "...I always feel braver when you're by my side. ...I didn't even think. It was if my limbs were possessed by something else. It was only after it happened it hit me, and yes, I was afraid."

Sherlock's cheek clenched in stony silence.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock's mind stumbled to attention, "Pardon?"

The Pathologist was looking away. Her hands were tensely locked around the Belstaff collar. If they weren't supporting it, they would have been wringing.

"When I left you after our fight," Molly began, taking deep courageous breaths, "I-I was scared, overwhelmed, and _so _stupid. You were reaching out to me, and I shunned you."

_But I nearly kissed you, and then I rejected you._

"Molly-"

"Let me finish because this isn't easy," Molly mumbled in a rush. "Tonight, you handled yourself amazingly. I thought your grief would interfere with the case, but I was wrong. I should have listened to you, Sherlock. I'm sorry." The word hung for a moment amongst the rain, "You don't need to tell me about who you're grieving. But- If you ever- _ever- _need someone, I'm here. God, I'm the woman who killed you… The least I can do is support you. But I can't be a replacement, a crutch, for whoever it is you're grieving."

Sherlock stiffened beside her.

Molly swallowed thickly, "I won't do it. Those moments, when we've nearly-" Her voice caught, "It hasn't been about me. And I forgive you for that Sherlock, but it can't happen anymore." Her chest raised to her throat, "You know how I feel about you. I can't- I can't be plagiarised with memories you have of someone else. It breaks my heart."

For the longest moment, there was silence.

The emptiness stretched her heart until it began to hollow.

"You're wrong." Sherlock replied.

And she w_as._

The moment she'd spoken the words, answer had flourished.

Molly_ wasn't_ Orzala. Didn't that demand a fresh perspective? If the women were entirely separate, would Molly really suffer the same fate? Molly wasn't a weak woman, every day she proved herself otherwise.

No, she was stronger than him.

And that was beautiful.

_We may never escape the danger…. But what is that worth, if not for a moment of love?_

Deep want grasped his insides. Want that _belonged _to her.

The renascent call for _action _struck again, and suddenly-

In his mind, he stood at the threshold of a door. It was ornate, rustic, gilded by a ray of blossoming sunlight. It sang of unwanted curiosity, a sweet honey of future unknown, a promise to abolish doubts and chase her-

Sherlock grasped the handle.

Molly gasped as his hand grasped her shoulder.

He wrenched down the handle.

Sherlock spun her around, squaring at her with an unguarded sense of visceral amazement-

And pulled the door open.

His lips descended upon hers.

For a painfully long moment, time stilled.

Sherlock's lips lingered against hers, waiting for something, _anything-_

Then, to his amazement, Molly Hooper softened. She pressed an inch closer, and moved her lips against his own.

Sensory input succumbed upon him, and helplessly, he basked everything that was _her_. His arms found sides, and he treasured it.

The sunlight from the door pulsated, until he glowed from the light.

A thought occurred, a most strange thought-

_For the first time since dying, I have finally arisen back to life._

Only when his synapses felt near exploding from kinetic input, did their lips part. Sherlock didn't move away. He couldn't. Gently, he brushed his nose against hers. And he smiled.

Shyly, she smiled back.

_"Sherlock! Molly!"_

Detective and Pathologist swept apart The air that glowed vanished into black. Only their eyes remained, drawn to each other like the last spark of a-

John burst out of the door, "We need to go! We need to go _now_!"

The Doctor was frantic. Panicked. Urgent. And utterly terrified… _Oh. _OH.

"Taxi!" Sherlock boomed, grasping his violin case and charging across the road.

"John?" Molly called, coddling her friend for attention, "John, what's wrong?"

"It's Mary," John gasped, looking desperately like his world was changing beneath his toes, "She's in labour."

* * *

**Well, folks... They did it! Don't know about you but I'm bloody relieved they finally got there!**

**The Music**

**The aria the soprano sang was "Tiger! Wetze nur di Klauen," from Mozart's Zaide. Even if you're not a classical fan, I implore you to listen to this piece. It's a hidden gem. Diana Damrau's rendition is by far the best. I saw her perform last year and GOD, she's an icon.**

**PLEASE NOTE- **On my profile, I've started three lists of music that are part of this story. One is of music featured, another is of the songs that inspired Sherlock and Molly's story, another for Sherlock and Orzala's time together. I will keep adding to them as we go through, because- SPOILERS. As this story is all about the music, I thought you'd like to know the songs that inspired it. There are some beautiful words and voices in those lists.

**Thanks for all your continued support! Remember there's a review box down below, what do you think will happen next?**

**Stay safe, and see you at the next one.**


	8. Inhale, Exhale

**Hello everyone! Hope you are all keeping well. :-)**

**Apologies for the delay in this chapter- Sadly a couple of weeks ago I lost an immediate family member to COVID-19 and it's taken a while to find my creative voice again. Please remember to stay home and observe social distancing, it is so important. **

**However, please note that I have the next chapter ready for publication! After some consideration, I decided to rework one chapter into two, to give both 'events' their voices. This chapter acts as a prologue for something monumental...**

**ALSO NOTE- The soprano from the last chapter's name has changed from Oksana to Fanya. This was to avoid confusion between Orzala/Oksana. **

**On that note, let's go, shall we?**

* * *

_'Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue... Live in the question' ~ Rainer Maria Rilke_

* * *

_T__he horizon bloomed. _

_Yellows, greys, and green permeated my irises as they drew open. Blearily, I heaved myself upright, wincing against yesterday's labours. How far would we travel today? How much closer to home would I be before the sun slumbered once more? _

_Strands of web shone behind my eyes, slowly fraying, slowly dwindling._

_It took an extortionate amount of time to realise that I was alone._

_Panic seized me. __Had bandits seized them whilst we slept? Had they gotten lost? Had they abandoned me? _

_And then, a hum echoed from mountain walls. _

_My synapses protested, but there was no faulting it- _

_It was song._

_I drifted into the valley._

_The sound was resonant, natural, as lush as berries basking in summer. _

_At the bottom of the valley lay a deep pool of water. It shone a blissful silver from sunlight behind clouds. _

_And immersed within the banks, there they were. _

_Olive skin, ebony hair, graceful arms and slender fingers gliding through the water._

_Their voice serenaded the East wind. _

_Beside them on the grass, their garments laid._

_They were exposed to the water and to the mountains, and I knew it was only to nature this moment was allowed. _

_I had intruded, but my feet refused retreat- _

_The song was a celebration; a fierce summoning of the sun. Harrowing years of war and oppression wore on their sound, combusting the coal into diamond._

_I daren't think of how it glittered in their eyes._

_My fingers twitched, longing to transcribe the melody onto manuscript. __I was a man enraptured in music's embrace._

_The woman who was meant to be voiceless threw her head back, and roared. _

_Arms swept into the air, turning in glorious patterns. Water ran down her arms, her ribs-_

_Suddenly, I was retreating, heart thundering, burning tears threatening my eyes. _

_Whatever happened, I vowed myself, Moriarty's ghost would not claim them, not ever._

* * *

**The Royal Albert Hall, Two Hours Ago**

_Evangeline sobered and languidly wrapped her arms around Reo's waist. "I guess we weren't right after all, dearie me."_

"_Don't worry. It'll be worth it. For the music will play. And the crows will sing."_

"_Hands above your head!" _

Seargent Moore couldn't believe them.

_Amateurs._

With a cry of determination, Scotland Yard barrelled into the room where Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Hooper had cornered Katherine Tonesson's murderers.

Moore swept into position, wordlessly placing himself behind Evangeline and securing her hands.

DI Lestrade began reciting their rights with proud bite. "Evangeline O'Brien and Reo Takashi, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder-"

Evangeline passed a small device into Moore's palm.

"You do not have to say anything, but-"

Moore slipped the device into his pocket, replacing it with handcuffs.

"-It may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned…"

Moore glanced towards Holmes, but the detective had placed all his focus on the quiet Pathologist.

_Thank God for that._

"Idiot." He hissed beside Evangeline's ear, clicking the cuffs into place.

* * *

It was easy to forget about a ground moving kiss when an assassin was in labour at the back of a car.

The past hour had been utter_ pandemonium_.

After John broke the news that Mary was in labour, himself, Molly, and Sherlock had raced to the Watson household. Sherlock had fired diversion's like gunfire, taking the taxi driver through countless side streets with one too many illegal manoeuvres.

Little Molly had known, that this was the calm of the storm.

For when they'd arrived, Mary had been further along than expected- Too far along for an ambulance wait.

Sherlock bolted down the street hollering at their taxi to come back.

John squandered together their hospital supplies as a soldier would his artillery, and off they went.

_That driver deserves a whopping bonus, _Molly thought.

Contractions came and went, faster, _faster-_

They nearly pulled over.

_Very nearly. _

Molly began recollecting her practical knowledge of labour and delivery, which Sherlock labelled lacking, and God- they had bickered until John had bellowed at the top of his lungs for them to _shut up!_

Baby Watson held on.

As the taxi pulled into to St Thomas' Hospital, Molly swore she'd never seen John move so quick, swerving past NHS workers as if dodging thundering gunfire.

Molly and Sherlock assisted Mary out of the taxi, and, after several gruelling stops, they managed to get her inside.

Molly had visibly sighed with relief at the sight of a nurse jogging over, John by her side.

"Hello Mary, I'm Nurse Hawthorn, and I'm going to take you through to labour and delivery, is that alright?"

"Of course, that's alright," Mary wheezed.

"It's happening," John hissed, "Jesus."

Sherlock smirked, "Do try to not have a cardiac arrest, John. It would be incredibly detrimental to the efficacy of your offspring's arrival-"

Mary doubled over, a visceral groan falling behind clenched teeth.

"Think that's our cue." John announced, lifting the hospital bag from Molly.

Molly kissed Mary on the cheek. "Good luck."

"Love you." Mary replied with a pained smile.

"Mary," Sherlock announced astutely, "Be incredible."

"Oh God, you're being _soppy_\- You! Of all-"

"Be _incredible _and try not to tear your perineal too far, it'd do well not to trigger a weakened bladder for the rest of your existence from this singular act."

"That's more like it." Mary smirked, "Prick."

The Nurse began to lead Mary away.

John remained. His limbs encumbered in granite.

"John-"

Er- right, wife dilating, _right-" _He started urgently to his wife's retreating form.

"Break a leg!" Sherlock bellowed.

The Doctor swept around, and as a conductor would raise a baton, he flashed the middle finger.

The insult fell without air, however, as John's face told another story. Excitement bloomed over his skin like the sun breaking over the cliffs of Dover.

A rare emotion flickered in Sherlock Holmes' chest.

Pride.

For a rare two seconds, Sherlock basked in sweet contentment. But then, the sweetness spun into a bitter wind. The weight of reality fell upon his chest, cold, dizzying.

Mary Watson was giving birth to a _child_; A living, breathing, contribution to the species.

For himself and John, a partnership he valued more than any other, it risked complete overhaul; For Mary had become a fine addition to their world, but a _child?_ Sherlock would care for the child irretrievably, but would he and John grow apart as their prospects grew less companionable? Family domesticity was hardly his area. Try as he may to navigate the potential outcomes, there were too many variables to decipher.

He stood, a pirate, unsure where to land in this new world.

"Hey," A soft voice began, "Are you alright?"

Ocean mist drifted into plain walls; the sound of waves replaced with the hum of hospital nightlife.

He turned his head to the voice.

Molly Hooper was analysing him with inquisitive care.

For a moment, Sherlock's attention was thwarted.

For every concern, every doubt, every _thought _became the memory of his lips gently against hers. Of the ultimate contentment that said he'd done the _right thing _as she'd responded in his arms. The light that had become him rose again; a sweet honey personified in a sunbeam.

A resurrection.

_For the first time since dying, I have finally arisen back to life. _

Sherlock desired her so completely, he didn't understand how to configure his actions. Methodologies he'd spent years mastering on human interaction fell into oblivion. And all she did was stand there. It was abominable how visceral the ache was. He _loathed_ it, he _adored it- _

A shift stirred his attention to refocus. Molly's body language had altered. She was nervous now- _Embarrassed? _No, just _aware. _Aware of what?

Molly's mouth twitched, her hands wringing together in front of her.

_Oh. _

_Aware of the way I'm looking at her, _Sherlock realised.

"Molly-"

"I'm going to get a hot drink," Molly began breathlessly, "I'll, erm- I'll get you something too. You should stay here, in case- in case John needs you." The ball of her foot twisted on the ground. "Right, okay."

Before Sherlock could say anything, she was dashing down the corridor, monumental Belstaff billowing around her small frame.

Playwrights in his peripheral proclaimed it an ironic metaphor for his control running away from him, but he dismissed the notion.

* * *

**New Scotland Yard**

"Come on, you git, come on-" Lestrade hissed, phone against his ear, "Where are you?"

DI Lestrade stormed up and down a bleak corridor. He couldn't believe the sheer _cheek_ of Sherlock Holmes-

Well, actually, he _definitely_ _could. _

Upon arriving at the station with Takashi and O'Reilly for arrest and the soprano Fanya Petrov for interview, Lestrade had moved _mountains _to allow Sherlock Holmes to attend the questioning. It involved two imploring pleas with admin, once feisty encounter with a Superintendant, and a debate against Sergeant Donovan until he succeeded. Lestrade had stood his ground.

Sherlock understood this case more than anyone, therefore, proceedings would run more productively with him present.

Only _now, _he wasn't there, and he wasn't answering his _bloody phone. _

"Lestrade," A bright voice announced, opening a door onto him, "Fanya Petrov is waiting for you."

"Cheers, I'll be right in."

Seargent Moore pulled the door closed behind him. "…Isn't Sherlock Holmes coming?"

"No," Lestrade huffed, glancing at his phone going to voicemail _again, _"No I don't think so."

"Oh." The young man frowned.

"Don't worry about it," Lestrade omitted, "Let's get this interview done with. The woman is still in her concert dress for crying out loud-"

"At least she isn't dead," The young Policeman acknowledged, "Could've ended a _lot _worse for her."

"Yeah. Of course." Lestrade sighed, "Let's go."

"Oh," Sergeant Moore interrupted, "I am just getting the witness some water, she asked for it."

"That's fine."

"Two ticks." He smiled.

Lestrade headed inside.

Moore barely retained a guffaw of laughter.

Sherlock Holmes was making it _easy._

* * *

"Coffee?"

If Molly's heart ricocheted as Sherlock opened his eyes, she didn't react.

The Detective was sat on a plastic chair as a King would a throne. His cheekbones arched against the artificial light, his brows taut in thought. If it wasn't for the kaleidoscopic blue eyes wandering over her, she would have wondered if he was marble.

Pronunciation became his body as he ascended into the present. "Ah, thank you Molly."

He took a cup from her hands and resumed position of a monument.

The Pathologist let out an anxious breath and sat by his side. Quietly, she slipped a small bag from one the Belstaff larger pockets containing two horrendously sugary doughnuts.

"Here."

Sherlock blinked, glancing towards the offer with a pesky side-eye. "I'm on a case."

"…You solved the case."

"That's to be debated."

Molly hardened her gaze, pushing the bag out further. "Debated, yes. But not proven. Eat."

For a moment, the pair oscillated. Molly could physically see the itching of hunger beneath the indignance of his expression. When a long hand reached out and collected the bag, pride washed over her.

"John said earlier you hadn't eaten. I didn't know how long it had been, and-"

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock replied stiffly, though the corner of his mouth tilted in a smile.

A smile similar to the one he'd given as he'd held onto her like a parched man greeted by a flush river-

Simultaneously, suffocated by the same thought, the pair faced forward once more.

Around them, Doctors, Nurses, Expectant Parents and Families orbited, but nor the public or the excitement of new life brought them from their stupor.

It was remarkable how much a singular action could ripple your perspective on a person.

For Molly Hooper, that person, absolutely, was Sherlock Holmes.

A myriad of questions tingled on her lips, the Viennese waltzers commanded lust in her stomach, and she felt dizzy.

When his lips met hers, Molly had almost rejected him- because the _reality _of his touch was irretrievably _powerful_. It had taken insurmountable strength to resume orbit beneath her feet, and Sherlock Holmes had travelled right with her. His touch had been tender- _too_ sensitive for the man she had come to know with the barbed tongue. Yet somehow, she knew it was because it was _her _and that _mattered _to him.

And the strangest part was, it hadn't felt strange.

There was _so much_ she wanted to say; Before the kiss she had asked him to not compare him with the person he'd lost, whoever they were. His actions truly had spoken louder than his words: Molly wasn't _that _person.

But it still begged the question of _who w_as he grieving?

After a friendship filled with death, deceit, and drugs, was it possible that his perception of her had altered too? Did he want her? Was he _capable _of that sort of want?

_Buzz, buzz-_

Molly blinked.

_Buzz-_

"Sherlock, your phone-"

The Detective, poised in introspective consultation, didn't flinch. "What of it?"

"It's ringing."

"Good observation."

"…Aren't you going to answer it?"

"No."

"Why not?" Molly questioned, "…Who is it?"

The Detective scowled, almost chiding her for meaningless question when his mind had information to consult but fell short upon realising the aforementioned information was all about _her. _

"Lestrade." Sherlock explained, "He'll be waiting for me at the station."

_Oh, _Molly realised now. Lestrade had asked Sherlock to go with him to oversee Takashi's and O'Reilly's arrests, and the interview with the singer- W_hat was her name now? _

"Aren't you going to go?" She asked carefully.

"No."

Molly took a sip of her coffee- _too hot- _and winced. "I can tell you're itching to get back on the case."

"There are more pressing matters to attend to."

This surprised her.

Sherlock was hardly a man to observe social customs over work. If a crime called, he would be present.

Hospital nightlife travelled around them, decorated by the songs of wailing babies in distant halls.

"…I never expected to be here." Sherlock began. He didn't look at her. The words were slow, driven with even breath.

"…I don't understand?"

The Detective drew his hands into a steeple. "I never expected I'd be present the day John Watson became a father. I gave away that opportunity when I took the decision."

_The decision to kill Charles Magnussen, _Molly filled in.

"I admit, I was," He paused, picking an appropriate adjective, "-Remorseful, that I'd never meet the child I had sworn to protect."

"…Sherlock." Molly breathed, _floored. _

"John deserves this. Though sentiment derails my logic, I consider it an elemental part of John Watson- Of him_ and_ Mary," He added, "This is an opportunity of great value. Cases come and go, but this- This is the finest work."

The words stood, glowing like soft candlelight, warming the irises of their eyes.

Then Molly raised her coffee in a subtle toast.

"To Baby Watson."

Sherlock tilted his cup.

"To Baby Watson." He agreed.

Simultaneously, they both sipped their coffee. For a moment, there was serenity. Until their eyes met. They lingered, just enough, that the weight of _everything _raised to the seams. The chase through the Royal Albert Hall, Molly wielding a gun, their kiss, Mary in labour, Sherlock's admittance of care-

"Well," Molly announced, voice overly bright, "This makes a refreshing change to the mortuary."

A nearby couple scowled in their direction.

Sherlock bowed his head with a feline grin, "Gallows humour in the maternity ward, Doctor Hooper?"

Silence reigned for a long moment.

Then, they snickered.

"God," Molly giggled, "What even _is_ this evening?"

"For that question Doctor Hooper, I have no answer."

"Can't you produce some fantastical analysis?"

"It seems my deductions skills are incapacitated."

"This is absurd! The world has gone insane-"

"Not the world, Molly." Sherlock replied, "Just the people in it."

Her breath stopped. "Sherlock-"

"I don't regret kissing you."

_Oh. _

"It was a considered action, and I don't regret it." Sherlock furthered suddenly, not unlike when he expelled rapid gunfire deduction. It was as if his every cell was _desperate _to get the words out. "It is obvious how confused you are-"

"Sher-"

"You're plaguing me with questions."

"…I- I hadn't said anything."

"Clearly you don't perceive how loud your thoughts are." He omitted with a grimace. "Nevertheless, I take full responsibility for your inner turmoil. It appears I haven't been entirely forthright with you, about-" He paused, "About _this." _

_Understatement of the year, _Molly thought. Her hands wrung together, desperate to know what their _This_ was.

"But the matter stands. …I don't regret my actions. I wouldn't be that reckless." His brows tilted inwards, "Not with you."

Molly sat, ricocheted. Words tumbled up her throat, violent,_ urgent-_

"Let me come to Baker Street tonight."

The Detective started, astonished.

"So, we can talk," Molly continued hurriedly, "Erm- I want to _understand._ Will you let me?"

Her words were taken, dissected, processed, then-

"Of course."

The earth trembled beneath her toes, and yet she didn't want to run.

Little did she know, beside her, Sherlock Holmes experiencing a sudden loss of cognitive function. How would tell Molly, a woman who was captivating his synapses, that he was still haunted by Orzala? He wished he understood the logistics of human sentiment to explain himself. He wasn't equipped for this.

He'd rather a thousand crime scenes than this endeavour.

Despite kissing her, fiery rationality still begged him to push Molly away, to keep Orzala a hidden memory and exist in the platitude of control he had for years. But his instincts protested. It wasn't right. This was _Molly. _She was different, and that warranted investigation. Because- though he loathed to admit it-

Kissing her had felt as simple as breathing.

"Sherlock," Molly began, drawing the stoic man from his stupor, "Are you sure Scotland Yard will cope without you? After all, this is _your _case-"

"Wrong. It's _ours, _Molly. I'm sure their ordinary brains can handle it, just this once."

* * *

Out of all the people Lestrade had interviewed in his career, Fanya Petrov was certainly one of the strangest.

The woman, of Russian descent, poised like a Tsarist queen upon Scotland Yard's ageing plastic chairs. As Lestrade uncomfortably slipped into it, he wondered how her spine could remain so straight. Those monstrosities were _vertebrae_ _killers._

"Right," Lestrade cleared his throat, "Mrs Petrov, my name is Detective Inspector Lestrade. We have brought you here for-"

"Sorry!" Seargent Moore exclaimed, bustling through the door apologetically.

"What took you so long, skipper?"

"Got caught up by Donovan, didn't I?" The younger man replied, quickly taking his seat beside the DI. He flashed a kind smile, "Here."

Fanya Petrov smiled tightly, taking the cup of water from the Detective Seargent with gratitude. With an elegant air, she raised the plastic cup and took a long, deep, sip.

"Right," Lestrade announced, "As I was saying, I am…"

* * *

"Go on, Molly. It's _obvious."_

"Shh, Sherlock! Let me think!"

"It really shouldn't require this much brain work-"

"Shhh!" Molly waved a hand in dismissal.

He almost laughed.

Doctor Hooper was formidable under pressure.

This was certainly an ample way of passing the time.

Turns out, labour was an arduous process. Detective and Pathologist had been waiting, at that moment, one hour and forty-two minutes for the birth of Baby Watson. Surprising, Sherlock thought, as he'd sworn Mary was minutes away from crowning in the taxi. Apparently instinctual panic- which he _wouldn't _admit to- had overdramatised the situation.

After their earlier discussion, Sherlock and Molly had settled in companionable quiet for the most part of a full hour. He had reviewed the case extensively, filing away the most important details for review, whilst Molly conducted menial tasks beside him; Some texting, some gaming apps, and social media- Until boredom wore thin. Briefly, he considered suggesting they break into St Thomas' morgue to pass the time, but being arrested as Baby Watson came into the world would not bode well with the Watsons. So, begrudgingly, he waited.

_Waiting. What an abhorrent notion._

He'd been moments away from caving and calling Lestrade when Molly had suddenly appeared with a notepad in hand- When she'd purchased it, he didn't know- She proclaimed they could play games to pass the time.

_A tedious endeavour._

Until he remembered who'd he'd been playing against.

Soon, pages were filled with noughts and crosses, squares, and more. Molly was delightfully competitive. Her witty remarks, playful glares, and oddly humorous reactions maintained his focus. It was remarkable she didn't bore him. Even people he cared most about bored him at a sensible rate: John, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, even Orzala had. That was _normal, _a simple fact of who he was and how his attention-span functioned.

The realisation that Molly didn't was disturbing.

"You have twenty-six variables, of which you've utilised thirteen already. Come on, Doctor Hooper-"

"F."

Blue eyes flicked up to the Pathologist, glittering with challenge. "Are you sure?"

Molly glared. "God- no. Just- do that, will you?"

"…F it is."

Pathologist and Detective looked down at a condemned man. Body parts, he had all. A single word would save his fate from the scaffold.

With a decisive swoop, Sherlock Holmes dragged his pen across the paper.

The man was tied to the post.

Molly groaned. "I should never have agreed to play hangman with you."

"At least I can defeat you at something, Doctor Hooper."

"You just made it impossible because you're bitter about chess."

"I did _not-"_

"Sure," Molly teased, "What was the word anyway?"

"Oligozoospermia."

Molly stared.

"Pardon?"

"I said, Oligozoospe-"

"No, no-" Molly interrupted, "What is that?"

Sherlock frowned, "You're a medical professional. You should be aware of such a common condition-"

"Sherlock," Molly giggled, "Just tell me."

His head tilted with academic prowess, "Oligozoospermia is a common cause of male infertility. In basic terms, it's a low concentration of sperm. Commonly, it's associated with biological abnormalities, otherwise known as oligoasthenoteratozoospermia. I thought it apt," One hand circled the air, "Considering where we are."

"…Remind me never to play hangman with you again."

"You enjoyed it."

"Why do you know about that anyway?"

The Detective seemed puzzled by the question. "Issues such as infertility come up in domestic cases on occasion. It is good to understand the science to rationalise why certain diagnoses leads to certain _issues." _

"Ah," Molly nodded like she'd known all along, "I thought you had sussed it out."

"Sussed out what?"

"You don't know, do you?"

Sherlock Holmes pivoted, slowly, until his upper half faced her completely. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Molly didn't alleviate her gaze. She was still being competitive, though the game was over.

"…I don't know what?"

"Well, Sherlock, I _thought _you'd said it because it's relevant to me."

He startled, aghast. "You and Meat Dagger tried to conceive? How did I not-"

"Oh God, no-" Molly cut in, cheeks flushing, "No, definitely not. And if we _had, _I'd have certainly been more well versed in the science."

"Then what?"

Molly exhaled her horror from the previous assumption, resuming to her confident stance from before.

"…Sherlock, you're looking at IVF baby number 77."

The Detective froze.

Molly observed his brow hitch together, his jaw parting, and eventually, his eyes widened.

"You're an IVF baby."

"One of the first in the UK." Molly smiled, then shook her head, "I don't know how I've never told you that-"

"But you have a brother-"

"Adam is a _happy miracle _eight years younger than me-"

Suddenly, Sherlock seized her hands in his own. He gazed at her in unadulterated amazement, scanning her every atom.

"You're a scientific marvel, Doctor Hooper."

Molly's heart staggered.

Then, at the end of the corridor, a door opened.

Sherlock swept to his feet.

"She's here," John announced, with the biggest smile they'd ever seen him bear, "Ten fingers, ten toes, and one hell of a set of lungs."

* * *

Lestrade swallowed a yawn. Despite being good at his job, tiredness was rising, and his patience was wearing thin. Fanya Petrov was not being straightforward, and the newly promoted Detective Sergeantlooked too bored to ask anything.

It was like babysitting.

Sherlock would know what he was looking for- it was _his _case, after all.

The woman shrugged, ebony tresses falling behind her shoulder. "Evangeline and Reo told me they worked for the theatre... I didn't believe them though. They were scouting."

"…Scouting?"

"Networking." The woman corrected with a simper, "Simple business. In the performing arts, I call it _survival_."

Lestrade let his focus hang, silently vying her to speak more.

Fanya took a long sip of water. "They have impressive connections in the industry. In return for my singing, they said they'd pass on my details to the greatest composer on earth."

Lestrade raised on his haunches. "Who's that?"

"I don't know," She omitted, "It wasn't them I was after. No, it was the other individuals they knew. A woman knows how to climb the ladder, it would be unwise to jump straight to the top."

Slowly, Lestrade's nerves were starting to twist like vines, securing his legs against the seat. The theory that O'Reilly and Evangeline had been a domestic set of criminals was fading fast.

This was _more. _

"I didn't know they intended to kill me," The woman cut in, façade slipping for a fleeting instant, "Truthfully, all I knew was that if I sang and was successful, they would make my dreams come true-"

_BANG_

The trio jumped in rapid succession.

The bang was unmistakable.

It was a gunshot.

"What the-!" Lestrade exclaimed, launching towards the door.

"Greg," Moore started, turning the recorder off, "What should I-"

"Stay here." The DI expostulated sternly, "Don't leave Petrov."

Lestrade took one short look at the newbie before wrenching the door open and stalking onto the corridor.

The room was engulfed in silence, save for the whispers of panic in rooms afar.

Fanya Petrov hovered on her seat, palm steadying her rocketing heart. "Wh-What's happening?" Frantically, she sought the attention of the Sergeant, but his back remained turned from her.

"God, I need to get out of here!" She thrust herself to her feet, blue dress rustling. "Let me out!."

An arm shot out, grasping her shoulder. "I don't think so."

There was a split second of confusion, before dread dropped like lead onto her every atom. "…Who are you?"

PC Moore turned slowly, deliberately, fingers never loosening the grip. "You said it yourself." He smirked, "A connection."

"…I don't understand."

"Funny thing, networking. People are so desperate to impress, oftentimes they don't realise _who _they're performing for."

Valiantly, she wrenched her arm away, "…Please, I don't know who you are. What do you want? Money? I have savings, I can-"

"Hush now." He smiled, tilted his head serenely, "I'm merely finalising our transaction."

"W-what are you talking about?"

"You sang for us, Mrs Petrov." He shrugged apologetically, "You weren't right... Shame, you would have made a beautiful crow."

If possible, the woman recoiled further. Visceral fear encroached in the blue blooms of her eyes, of her dress, then, suddenly- She coughed.

The air stood still.

Fanya Petrov inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, every motion stirring more panic, more and more- "Wh-What have you done?"

PC Moore wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I am terribly sorry, it's just the industry."

The woman lurched forward, grasping his arms. Her jaw parted with desperate question, but then she coughed- more and more- more and more-

_Inhale, exhale-_

Her knees buckled, and her body collapsed, gripping at the man's limbs every step of the way.

But he moved, watching her with eerie disinterest.

The woman flailed- _Inhale, exhale_\- upper body flailing until she appeared a spider upon a blue hydrangea- _Inhale, exhale-_

Sergeant Moore looked towards the clock.

_Inhale, exhale-_

"P-Please- help me-"

He didn't.

_Inhale, exhale…_

…_Inhale, exhale, inhale…_

…_exha-_

The earth stood silent upon the woman who would never sing again.

PC Moore shrugged, "Nevermind."

With a fresh gait, the man ventured for the door and took the handle in his hand.

"What is it they say? That awful cliché…" He gasped in feigned wonder, "Oh! That's it- There's no business like show business." A bitter laugh tore from his throat, a crow's caw.

Before his laugh roused humorously, he physically subdued himself, breathed, then shifted as a snake shed its skin.

Horror burst into every facet of his skin.

He threw the door open.

"_Help me! Call an ambulance- I think, I think she's dead! I don't know what's happened- Oh my God…"_

* * *

Sherlock could recall the day he met John Watson.

It had been a boring day, devoid of intrigue. The case he'd worked had been mediocre at best. Something to pass the time.

It usually took a length of time for people to make an imprint on Sherlock Holmes. Humans were liars, untrustworthy, moving carelessly within the tropes that deemed modern society.

For Mrs Hudson, it had taken weeks to acknowledge her importance.

For Lestrade, it had taken months.

For Molly, it had taken years.

For John, it had taken _minutes. _

For John was a man in disguise. He presented himself with quiet politeness, but under that, there was something much more _visceral._ A love of danger, rapt intelligence- though it took years of prodding to let it loose- and utter, total loyalty.

Sherlock hadn't seen humble Doctor Watson- no, he'd seen Captain Watson, fresh from the fight.

If you asked Sherlock Holmes, he could describe their first encounter to within a breadth of detail.

They were kindred spirits. John desired an ordinary existence but couldn't shake his desire for adrenaline and danger. Sherlock, recently returned from rehab- The reason his previous flatmate had left- Had been required to_ perform_ as a domestic man, with his only recreation being crime.

Unconsciously, they solved the expectations and desires of eachothers existences.

And thus, a friendship blossomed. Sherlock considered it a fine asset to his existence-

Until John began to change him.

John Watson was, inherently, a good man. As their bond grew, Sherlock subconsciously began to respond to John's behaviour. Where once people had been merely _interesting _or _boring, _they became good or bad, loyal or useless.

Sherlock began to notice- truly notice- those around him. And it was only then he began to _notice_ Molly Hooper.

The seed was sowed, and over time, it grew into a sprout of care.

Then he'd died.

Molly became the lighthouse beckoning him home, because she was the singular person who was w_aiting _for him.

When he'd dreamt about her and awoke feeling uneasy, he should have known.

The sprout was curling new leaves every day-

But Orzala caught his attention. That beautiful, wondrous, astounding woman. For a while, she became the complete and utter centre of his focus, and he did not regret that.

Not for a single moment.

His and Orzala's relationship had been aromantic. Sherlock, admittedly, had desired a true relationship with her, with all physical amenities considered- but kept imploring himself- _not yet, not now. _Of course, he cited reasons. The constant danger? _Obviously_. Her faith? _Naturally. _The risk of pregnancy? _Abhorrent. _

_You see, but you do not observe._

The reason, the r_eal _reason- Which now lingered on his tongue like a bitter fruit- was because the idea of Molly Hooper _waiting _for him refused to let him go.

Perhaps he'd been waiting for her too.

Now, Sherlock was standing on the precipice of meeting John Watson's child, hours after kissing Molly Hooper. And, more importantly, not disturbed, chagrined, or repulsed by his decision.

If it wasn't for John, he would still be driven by harsh rationality. Sherlock lamented how e_asy _life would be if he still observed those customs.

But, this truly unique situation was down to John, down to that very first meeting.

As Molly walked beside him, he ached for her. It was a decidedly uncharacteristic, but it refused to abate. It pooled incessantly like a boulder on the precipice of a cliff. One that had ached for gravity for many, many, years.

If Molly was to push, he would be a man undone.

Sherlock Holmes didn't know whether to thank John, or berate him.

His presence reascended from thought just as John shot the pair a scarcely withheld grin over his shoulder, and entered the room to Mary's temporary ward.

In sync, Detective and Pathologist stepped forward, only to momentarily brush against one another. Heat surged. Molly laughed nervously, Sherlock remained neutral, but the moment had spoken for itself. Kissing her was like a first hit…

This thought struck him with desperate unease, until he saw _her. _

_Baby Watson. _

A tiny, red, wrinkled thing swaddled in her mother's embrace.

Small features slumbered softly, acclimatising to the new world.

Deductions jumped into his vision, fresh and unexpected. The curvature was soft, unhardened by the trauma of life. Three words.

_John, Mary, Family. _

And just like that, he couldn't move.

_The air throbbed with putrid heat. My robes hung heavily against my skin._

_Around us, Eastern countryside passed rapidly, endless mileage of colourful tapestry. The car engine churned loudly. _

_"I shouldn't be here." They started lowly, emerald irises focused intently on the road. _

_I bit back a harsh reproach, "We agreed, Habibi." _

_"No," Their jaw caught, "There is something I haven't told you." _

_My hands which were steady on the wheel involuntarily twitched. "Explain." _

_"I'm supposed to be dead- No, don't look at me like that. I am." They lent their head against the window, "Despite the sin, I knew I would be forgiven… But then you saved me, and- I should have said no. I should have stayed."_

_Dark ware swept over me. "How so?"_

_It took a long time before they spoke, the tension spiralled around us like dust in a storm. _

_"I did something unforgivable," They admitted painfully, "...I left my children behind."_

"...Sherlock?"

"I think he's buffering."

"Buffering?"

"He does that."

"Earth to Sherlock Holmes?"

Suddenly, wind swept from the West. Sherlock forced air in his lungs. His skin burned as it had in the hills of Afghanistan. Cerulean eyes blinked back into focus.

Immediately, he chastised himself. The flashbacks refused to abate. His friends were staring at him with a varying mix of confusion and concern. Mary with Baby in her arms, John at her shoulder, and Molly at this side. They were a frightening picture of domesticity.

Quickly, he made steps towards the child, hoping they'd assume he was overwhelmed, rather than caught in the torrents of one of his finest regrets.

And, despite everything, the child's _innocence s_wayed away the Eastern heat like summer rain.

_Thank God for Baby Watson._

"…Well," He announced with perfunctory prowess, "The result of your reproduction was successful."

John started, "Sher-"

"No, John." Sherlock corrected, an unburdened smile broadening on his calculated guise. "She… She's marvellous."

"That's good," Mary grinned, nodding to John, "The first thing that one said was _bloody hell." _

"Not surprising. John's already gained three pounds and your child has only been alive for fifty-two minutes".

"For Christ's sake," The Doctor cursed with a chuckle, "You two are impossible."

For once, he was grateful for their lack of observance.

Molly bobbed on the balls of her feet, "Have you decided on a name yet?"

Sherlock opened his mouth-

John's hand shot out, "We are _not _naming her after you, Sherlock."

"Your loss." He smirked.

Mary sighed gently, "Baby Girl is still nameless… I mean, how do you begin to name a whole person? It's like staring at the whole world."

As if on cue, the infant parted its eyelids. Dark blue blooms blossomed, curious in their endeavour to decipher the light.

For a moment, they all hovered in rapturous awe.

Sherlock and Molly stayed a while, forced to observe a multitude of social customs Sherlock wasn't attuned to. Endless photographs, _tedious. _Being asked "Would you like to hold her?" time and time again, _pointless. _Being shot scornful glares every time he inquired about the finite details of the labouring process, _typical. _

When confronted with the child, Sherlock had expected his thoughts to remain academic. Infants were an astounding feat of biology. In the coming weeks, he intended to study the child's developments keenly, knowing the knowledge could be applied to cases in the future. He also intended to observe John and Mary's responses to the new pressure carefully. That, too, was a valuable insight into human nature. However, though he had expected a certain degree of sentiment, the innate _loyalty _that based within himself paralysed his nerves.

In all his years, he had never found a person who imprinted themself on him _instantly._

Baby Watson was profound.

Gently, his index finger brushed across the child's cheek who laid in his arms. The infant scrunched its face, twisted, and let out a small cry. Instinctively, Sherlock made shushing motions.

It surprised the others, it certainly surprised him.

"Now, Baby Watson, I empathise… Isn't it abhorrent?" He regarded the child calmly, "When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools."

"I bet you screamed the hospital down." John quipped.

Sherlock sighed, "It's Shakespeare, John. King Lear. Please utilise your brain cells if any remain functioning."

Behind him, Molly's lyrical laugh evaded his senses. She stopped just behind his shoulder, tilting her head in wonder at the child. Unwelcome heat flooded him. For as he admired her, warm in adoration, he couldn't believe this was the woman who had raised a gun hours before, that this was the woman who'd killed him to save his life. On his pedestal of rationality, she was the sun that bore against it.

He wanted to bathe in her light.

"Here," Sherlock started smoothly, efficiently passing the infant into her arms.

Eagerly, Molly took her, immediately lost in an array of cooing and instinctive bobbing. She asked John to take their picture, and the Doctor took her to the far side of the room.

Sherlock observed her leaving, flummoxed at the _Issue of Molly._

"So, tell me," Mary began softly, "What do you think to her?"

The Detective stirred. He had forgotten Mary was there, despite being the room's focal point. She was struggling to keep herself awake. But the sharpness remained in the assassin's eyes, glimmering with intrigue.

"Impossible." Sherlock answered softly, not knowing whether he was referring to the child or Molly.

"I'm terrified." Mary admitted, voice a low murmur, "She's so perfect… But this world isn't. There is so much that could hurt her."

Mary didn't need to explain, Sherlock knew _exactly _what she meant, far too well.

"I've been gifted so much, Sherlock," She continued quietly, "I can't help but feel that every single risk to my future now imposes on her… Holding her, I feel my own mortality than ever before."

"The atom bomb," Sherlock added, referencing their words from nights ago.

"How do I navigate this, Sherlock? How do I keep them safe?"

The Detective swallowed, watching the assassin's- no, the _mother's_\- watchful gaze over her child and husband. He'd never seen her look so vulnerable. He wondered if he looked the same.

"You do all you can." Sherlock told her, images of Orzala's emerald eyes burning in his peripheral, "That's all you can do."

Mary's palm drifted against his own.

"Are you alright? …Before, you said that you feared you couldn't care for her, due to-" Mary's words caught, _Orzala's death, _hidden beneath the silent air.

Recognition shifted with him. He'd made such a statement about Molly, but she hadn't been aware. Now he found himself in a similar impasse. His eyes drifted to Molly, laughing with John, and found himself, once more, at a loss.

"I cannot exist in the past anymore." He stole a breath, grateful for the fleeting honesty, "I have to move on. I need to expose myself to the elements I fear, to and allow actions to carry their course."

Tonight, he would tell Molly about Orzala. As unsettling as the notion was, it was entirely necessary for the future of their companionship. Then, once she understood, he would tell her he desired her. Whatever happened after that, was in Molly's hands.

"She'll adore you, Sherlock." Mary implored gently, "It will be worth every second."

And though Mary spoke of Baby Watson, Sherlock hoped her words would be true.

Rain beat upon the earth.

Underneath a small shelter that scarcely covered the downpour, DI Lestrade and Seargent Moore stood in the Scotland Yard smoking area. The pair were both a shade paler than they had been earlier during the night.

It had been a _disaster._

First, an officer had accidentally fired a gun when moving it to a secure Unit- Thank _God_ no one was hurt- It was a HR catastrophe. Then, the spiralling evening tumbled off a cliff. Fanya Petrov died in the interview room. O'Reilly and Takashi had succeeded in their scheme. Lestrade had received pieces of information, but nothing concrete. And, most annoyingly, O'Reilly and Takashi had been mute since their arrest.

Just as Brenner, the boy who had murdered Luke Yates, had been.

Frustration clung to his skin, colder than the rain.

"How the hell did this happen?" Lestrade lamented, tossing his cigarette to the ground and squashing it ungainly.

"I don't know," Moore mumbled, voice wavering, "I don't bloody know."

Lestrade sighed, pulling out another cigarette from its box and offering it to the young officer, "Here, you look like hell frozen over."

The man looked at the item questioningly, before muttering _fuck it _under his breath and cradling it to his lips. Wordlessly, Lestrade lit it.

Moore took a long drag. "…She just _fell_, Greg. How did they manage to kill her _after_ they were separated?"

"A delayed reaction to poison, my guess." He stated grimly, "Sherlock was right."

Seargent Moore shifted, watching the swirls of smoke dissipating amongst London's rainfall. "How so?"

"He theorised there was more to this ever since Luke Yate's murder. I swore it was a domestic crime… But it's not. Whatever information that woman had, she died with it. This is big. I don't like _big_._"_

"…What are you going to do?"

"Don't worry yourself," Lestrade omitted, "I know exactly the person for this."

_Buzz-_

Frowning, Lestrade reached around his pocket and lifted his phone, holding it under his face to shield it from the rain. The blue light glared against his skin.

Beneath him was a text from Molly Hooper.

**Hi Greg! Reckon Sherlock would forget to tell you, but tonight took yet another surprising turn!  
At 12:43am, Mary gave birth to a healthy baby girl.  
Hope the interview went smoothly!**

"Well, I'll be damned."

Grinning, Lestrade looked back up.

But PC Moore was gone.

Briefly, Lestrade hovered in confusion, before shrugging and returning his attention to the mobile. Only the birth of John Watson's child would distract Sherlock from a case. No doubt the Detective would bombard Scotland Yard first thing in the morning demanding data, but for now, Lestrade had to take matters into his own hand.

The Detective Inspector dismissed the message, quickly punching in a number he'd memorised years ago but knew better than to save.

"Mycroft," Lestrade began hurriedly, "Sorry about the hour, but there is activity in London I strongly believe is in your interest…"

Above the Detective, a crow stood on its perch.

Rain veered down its black feathers.

It wrenched its royal head, and cawed.

* * *

**And there we are!**

**Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! It was a different tone, but I hope you enjoyed it as a prologue for what's to come. :-)**

**Thank you so much for your comments/feedback. It's really been a ray of light during these difficult weeks. Also, we've hit 50 followers and almost 30 favourites! So grateful.**

**PLEASE NOTE- ****This story will soon be updated to an M rating. This isn't due to it becoming a smut-fest, but more so to allow the story to confront certain topics- intimacy, murder, etc more directly. I do stand by it as a hard T, but for safety, it will be going up!**

**Side notes-** Lestrade called Moore a Skipper, this is a common term used for Seargent's within the Metropolitan Police, and other companies, particularly around the South of England.  
The flashback in the first scene was written a while ago, however recently I watched Netflix's Unorthodox and was shook because a scene captured this similar idea for escaping oppression through singing in a different setting. If you want a look, go search 'Unorthodox singing' on youtube, and watch Shira Haas performing 'Mi Bon Siach'. The whole series is wonderful, too!

**Thanks again, and see you in a few days... Sherlock has a whopping story to tell...**


	9. Magnus Opus

**Greetings everyone! So excited to see so many new readers here. Hello!**

**Just a quick word to say thank you for all your messages of support and kindness, it truly means the world to me. Thank you. **

**A note on this chapter- This is all Sherlock and Molly and it's length designated it's name- Magnus Opus! Haha!. The truth is about to be told. Please take note that Orzaia's story is fictional and entirely individual. It is not a comment on the country/culture that is hers by any means. Also, Sherlock is the one voicing her story. Naturally, he carries unintentional bias. This is a chapter I've longed to write for a long time. :-)**

**The chapter does constitute an M rating towards the end, though I could read it as a hard T. If it gets a little too much for you, turn off and fade to black... Haha! **

**Settle in, grab a cuppa, and off we go...**

* * *

_'Your solitude will be a support and a home for you, even in the midst of very unfamiliar circumstances, and from it you will find all your paths.' ~ Rainer Maria Rilke_

* * *

**Saint Bartholomew's Hospital**

**2013**

_This had once been my life._

_It wasn't how I remembered it. The map I kept in the second left drawer wasn't there. My favourite microscope had been abandoned for a newer model. The lights had been replaced. They were brighter, so that the dead could be seen in more detail. _

_They vivisected me. _

_The microscopes, the Petri dishes, the files._

_The Belstaff, that had once been armour felt unbearably large on my shoulders. _

_It was all wrong. London was wrong. Perhaps in my longing for home, I misconstrued what home was. _

_Life had been easier in the mountains. _

_Then I saw her. _

_…Molly Hooper. _

_The same lab coat, the same hairstyle, the same terrible dress sense and small precise footsteps. I allowed myself the pleasure of observing her. _

_I'd missed her. _

_Then, she closed her locker, and saw me. _

_Molten adrenaline shot through my blood._

_I didn't flinch._

_She swayed, hands thrusting behind her for support._

_I didn't move- I couldn't._

_Then, shock blossomed into unadulterated relief, and she flung herself into my arms. _

_I felt everything. _

_I felt every whip against my skin, every gunshot, every blister burning my soles. I felt their smile, I felt their laughter, I felt their emerald irises. I felt their blood spilling on my hands- _

_Molly's hands sought my face. _

_I tried to be brave, I tried to be Sherlock Holmes._

_"Oh my God," She gasped, "What have they done to you?" _

_The cage shattered. _

_I swept her into a tight embrace and buried my head in her shoulder. _

_Though I never answered her question, I wondered if she understood._

_In a world where I was a ghost, she allowed me to be human._

_I was home._

* * *

Human memory was a magnificent force. Despite philosophers, scientists, and millennia of evolution, no singular being understood it. It was, at its core, a remarkable mystery.

Sherlock had always yearned to peer into its wisdom, but he was but a human man.

As their Taxi pulled up to Baker Street, and Orzala's rich voice sang through his skull, he churned with chagrin.

Sherlock didn't romanticise death, much like other facets of existence. Orzala was deceased. The grief he suffered was an elementary reaction to the trauma he'd endured_. _He didn't wish Molly to suppose he was overruled by grief. He hadn't been for years, and despite the recent torments, he wasn't now.

He wished Molly would be clinical, but experience evidenced that that was a useless venture; emotions oftentimes overruled her judgement.

For all the glories of his intellect, navigating human emotion was a problem. For years, the world had labelled him as cold, heartless, cruel. But the point of the matter was obvious. He simply didn't _engage_ with pointless emotion. If someone's upset interfered with a case, he dismissed their stress for productivity, irrespective of the immediate pain. The short-term offence was far less poignant than long term justice.

Despite unwarranted feelings festering for the Pathologist, he rationalised her sentiment could derail him.

He had to remain in control.

The _Issue of Molly _had, in the space of weeks, become a perilous issue. He prided himself on intrinsic focus, calculation, and solution. And yet, at the Royal Albert Hall, his focus had been compromised. Awash in the riptide of untampered desire, probability suggested the disturbance will have caused him to miss something of importance.

It simply wouldn't do.

If the Pathologist was a case, Sherlock knew it would demand his full attention. He'd have to unravel her to understand _why _he wanted her so incomparably-

The practical approach.

But he didn't love her, and it _would_ hurt her eventually. Their relationship had always been toxic, and Sherlock was truthful that although it had altered, that factor hadn't changed.

Tonight, he had to be professional to protect them both.

_Explain, Retreat, Immerse Yourself in Perfect Solitude._

* * *

As the taxi quietly pulled against the curb, Molly was starting to regret the decision to go to Baker Street. Her body throbbed with exhaustion. She desired to process everything and address it the next day with a fresh mind.

In the space of a few hours, Sherlock had kissed her, and John and Mary had brought Baby Watson into the world.

Now, the future felt too unpredictable to fathom.

Together, Detective and Pathologist entered the building, treading softly to not disturb the slumbering landlady.

Baker Street uninhabited was a shell of antiquity. Shadows domineered the Victorian space, black against navy blues, deep maroons, and brushes of grey. The air was decidedly lifeless.

As Molly lingered at the threshold, she realised forcefully how Sherlock was the _breath _of this home.

Against the dark, her eyes drew upon Moriarty's _Did You Miss Me _sign upon the wall. She saw their chessboard where it had been left after returning from Hampton Court Palace days ago.

Sherlock Holmes' circumstances were in flux. His best friend was now a father, his life had been unexpectedly returned from exile, and he was grieving. It was changing him before her very eyes.

Looking at the chessboard, a thought struck her.

Was _she _his constant?

Wordlessly, they removed their shoes. Sherlock's violin case was placed on the ground, his blazer hung. Molly slipped his Belstaff off her shoulders and placed it on its rightful hook. Molly noticed him smile at that, as if momentarily impressed she knew where it belonged.

Then, he stalked away, leaving her in the dark.

Molly oscillated, wondering what to-

"Molly," Sherlock called, "Are you coming?"

_Breathe. _

As she rounded a corner, her nerves rolled at the beam of light escaping his partially open bedroom door. She'd been in there before, but there was something tangible in that ray of light.

It sang of unchartered territory.

_Be brave._

Slowly, the stepped through the threshold.

To her surprise, the Detective was on his knees, reaching around inside his cupboard. He didn't acknowledge her.

The room was lit by an amber bedside light. The glow was soft- homely, even- It seemed out of place for the private space of Sherlock Holmes.

With a huff, Sherlock pushed backwards. A weathered box was gripped in his hands.

"Sherlock-"

"Sit down."

He pivoted, crossed his legs, and gestured to the space opposite him.

Molly sat.

With meticulous professionalism, he placed the box on the floor, stretched his artistic fingers, and set upon unlocking it. It was secured by four locks with different codes, some not in English script. Within that was another box, secured by a further two locks.

After what felt like an age, though it must've been a mere minute, the box clicked open.

Un undecipherable expression levelled on his features.

Beneath them laid a collection of documents. The largest one was listed as classified and followed by more foreign script Molly didn't recognise- _Russian? Bulgarian?_ On top of it were several passports, a pistol that looked decidedly out of date, three bullets, a penknife, and a small collection of various currency.

"Go ahead," Sherlock instructed in a low voice.

Swallowing, Molly lifted one of the passports.

And air left her.

It was the passport of a bearded ghost in Eastern robes.

"I haven't opened this since I returned to Baker Street," Sherlock explained, "It hasn't been necessary."

"…These are the documents from when you were dead."

"Not exactly," He counteracted, "The Secret Services own the accounts. This is merely a collection of my aliases, visas approved by foreign governments, licences to carry weapons-"

Molly forced in a breath. "…Why do you keep them?"

Beneath them, his fingers twitched. Eyes that had shone sharply flicked to the ground. It was uncharacteristic. It was _nervous._

"I keep them in case there is ever a situation that requires me to leave again."

There was a long, grave, silence.

_Did you miss me?_

"Molly," Sherlock began- on the edge of _reassuring_, "It is a precaution. Mycroft doesn't suppose I'll ever need it. My work was satisfactory, and I am protected."

Molly almost cried.

"Then why," She managed, "Why are you showing me?"

Sherlock extended a small piece of card to her.

Her hands trembled as she reached for it, but Sherlock remained silent.

It was a photograph. The picture was black and white, grainy, taken from inside a shop's CCTV. Walking down an aisle was Sherlock- the ghost- with a woman by his side. The woman was dressed modestly, hijab covering her hair. The quality of the photo blurred their features, but Molly could tell she was beautiful. A strong jaw, wide light eyes, plump lips.

_I know a grieving man when I see one._

_Habibi._

"Sherlock…"

"That is Orzala Ibrahimkhel." He explained slowly, "She joined me my mission to destroy Moriarty's network, and was killed nine days before I was saved."

Goosebumps flared across Molly's arms.

"I'm not supposed to own this photograph. Mycroft wiped Orzala's efforts from the records." His tone edged on bitter. "However, one of his minions saved it. They felt _sorry _for me. …This photo is the only one I know of that wasn't destroyed."

In the space of a moment, the photograph in her hands felt like a monolith.

"Molly-"

"You don't have to tell me." She interrupted anxiously, dropping the photograph in the box.

"I do."

"No." Molly pushed herself to her feet, "God, Sherlock, I can't make you-"

The Detective followed. "Why not?"

Her back turned to him, but Sherlock grasped her forearm, turning her to him quickly. Molly grounded her fists with trepidation.

"Sherlock, have you _ever _shown anyone this?"

"No."

"Then why me?" Molly susurrated, brown eyes imploring, "Why-"

Suddenly, his palms accosted her upper arms. Their ragged breaths mingled in small air.

"Because it is imperative that you understand." He bit, "Because you _matter, _Molly."

With curling frustration, he swept to the edge of his bed, hands lacing in his hair.

Molly scrambled to remember a last time she'd seen him appear so winded- and it hit her like ice.

_The night before he died. _

Sherlock was expressing the deepest parts of himself and all she could do was feel _undeserving. _

…_He needs you to be strong._

Mustering courage that edged on flight, she carefully retook her place on the carpet.

She gave him time.

Time was the finest gift for Sherlock Holmes.

It was a long while until he stirred. His cheekbones hollowed in shadows, ageing him beyond his years. For a moment, Molly felt she was staring into the translucent eyes of a ghost who belonged on the passport. Not here- not _now. _

"It was my fifteenth month dismantling Moriarty's network that I met Orzala," He began in a low, deliberate tone, "I was infiltrating a hub of opiate production financed by Moriarty's network in Istalif. It's a rural village, near Kabul in Afghanistan."

Molly blanched. Images sprung of the war-torn country, of sobbing mothers and blazing guns.

_Why didn't he tell John? John would understand. _

"I was to immerse myself in their world and then break the faction with the men's secrets. It was a method that had been very successful in other circles." A beat, "The men operated a harsh conservative regime but they weren't extremists- Far from it. Rather, working for Moriarty's network was an ample source of security that kept them away from the Taliban's persisting strongholds… That's what Moriarty did, you see. He impeached duty from those who _would _follow because it was the _safer _option." His lip pulled in a bitter disgust, "For this, I didn't wish to damage them. I simply aimed to dismantle the faction and retreat."

"Sherlock, why are you-"

"Context, Molly." He supplied. "The men and I broke naan, sang, and danced. However, one evening they called upon their wives to perform the Attan to us; it's a folk dance."

"Was that not allowed?"

"Technically it was," Sherlock shrugged, "But this was an area in which most women still wore burqas, child marriage was common and often tribal law often outweighed politics."

Two digits tapped against his knee in syncopation. Molly wondered if it was the rhythm of the dances replaying in his memories.

"...It was then I saw Orzala. She was twenty-six when we met." He paused, visibly designating his words with care, "I found myself _intrigued, _for when the other women moved with duty, Orzala moved with _passion_\- But that was a mistake, for I saw what she had tucked under her dress. She'd strapped a gun to her hip."

_The woman spun before me, glittering colours and mirrors refracting in her emerald eyes. But my heart raced, and panic swelled, for the gun stood out like an antelope in the prairie. _

"Before I could prevent anything, she shot her husband dead." Sherlock's continued factually, "Ironically, the man who was my main target."

"Oh my God."

"Orzala fled, and the men assembled a manhunt. They hollered that such a _sinful _woman would not live. And at that moment, I snapped."

"What do you mean?"

For the first time, Sherlock flicked his eyes to her.

"Molly… I had been alone for _fifteen_ months. Though I had worked alongside informants and other agents- I was-" His lips curled in distaste- "…_Lonely. _I was becoming a carcass within my own skin. When Orzala shot her husband, I was _relieved_. The strength she had shown… It was like I'd seen myself fall from St Bart's again. It was an act of sacrifice, of survival." He stilled, blue eyes returning to the shadows, "…I left everything: My papers, my burner phone, my plans to dismantle that facet of the network and went into the wilderness after her."

His words hung, as still as a calm desert night.

Molly was floored. Sherlock Holmes had dropped _everything _to save this woman… It was inconceivable.

Valiantly, she pressed on. "…And you found her?"

_Give me the gun. _

"Yes. She thought I was going to kill her at first." Sherlock's brow twitched, "But instead I promised to get her over the border into another country then we'd part ways. And she agreed."

"…Wow."

His tone became factual, not dissimilar to explaining the states of suspects. "Orzala had been married at fourteen years old. She was a mother of two boys. However, she was far beyond her youth. Often I thought she was far wiser than I'd ever be."

A question instilled in Molly's veins. "Sherlock, why did she kill her husband?"

"…She never told me." Sherlock drew straighter, "But I know orphaning her children was her only way of protecting them from him."

A turbulent swell of anxiety curled within Molly's stomach, she resisted her words, but, suddenly-

"…Did you support her decision?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked to her again, open- In surprise, maybe. Molly saw his brow dip, his lips move, as he scrambled around his thoughts for a response.

"I didn't know she had children until we were too far gone to go back. It was a belligerent mistake to not spot the physical tells." He drew a long, grounded breath, "However, understand that the decision to leave was hers. It was not my right to judge her. She had lived a very different life to what we've ever known."

Molly's heart felt like a rock. "What's become of her children?"

"…I admit upon returning to England I utilised my contacts to source information, but they didn't discover anything. Whether they are alive or not, I don't know."

Sadness gripped Molly's stomach. A moment ago, he had claimed he had no say in Orzala's life. But in death, Sherlock's duty of care extended to the woman's family.

"What happened then, Sherlock?" Molly asked softly, edging the story to continue.

The Detective tilted his head, bones catching in dark shadows. "Without contacts, money, or identity, myself and Orzala had to escape the country. I decided to remain on path with the mission… I had to get to China."

"How?"

"Though we hijacked several vehicles on the way, it was often on foot. It took three months, two weeks, and four days. We escaped through the Wakhjir Pass on the Wakhan- part of the Hindu Kush; Afghanistan's only direct border with China. Men claim the pass is uninhabitable, but it merely requires a distinct method." Blue eyes flickered with suppressed pride. "Eventually, we broke through into Xinjiang. There, I finally managed to get through to Mycroft. He had thought me dead ever since I abandoned Istalif. However, as much as he was relieved at my continued existence, he was furious about Orzala. But at this point, we had both changed…" Sherlock hesitated, steel mask suspended, "I wanted to bring her back to London. I wanted to start a life with her."

Molly's heart, which had been on the edge of collapse, flipped violently in her chest.

He'd fallen in love.

Though he didn't say the words, it was sung in the cerulean depths of his eyes, in the tension in his shoulders, in the inflection of his voice.

"Had she not been by my side, I wouldn't have survived. Orzala taught me about human integrity, and in return, she thrived off my knowledge. I taught her languages, deduction, science…"

The Detective took a moment to catch his thoughts. There were so many moments of detail he could explain to their finest breaths. But he settled on the facts. Molly was overwhelmed, her emotions beginning to grate on his control- he had to remain clinical.

"Orzala and I dedicated the following months to dismantling the remaining areas of Moriarty's network. Mycroft refused to provide Orzala with identity papers- citing the risk too grave- so I sought criminals who would do it for us. We travelled across Istanbul, Bucharest, and Varna. And we did it, Molly. We dissolved Moriarty's network."

Without thinking, Molly pressed herself to her feet, and settled by his side on the mattress.

The tide swerved between their toes.

He didn't flinch.

"Our only remaining task was to cross over into Serbia to meet other English operatives and return to London. …We were exhausted from the fight and thought the danger was over." Beneath him, his fists slowly curled together, "A Bulgarian informant sold us out to a gang of Serbian criminals. They weren't even part of Moriarty's network- but they heard _English _and S_ecret Service _and presumed us a threat." He let out a mirthless laugh, "They stalked us through the woods, and we were captured."

A unique expression was encroaching on Sherlock Holmes' limbs. It was beyond the grief; beyond the vulnerability, she'd seen whispers of. It was hollow, dark, cold. As if the ghost was slipping into the afterlife before her very eyes.

Molly ached to reach out, to offer any semblance of a comforting gesture- But there was nothing that seemed _right._

Inches away from her, he felt invisible.

"The criminals tried to pry information from us, but we had nothing of value for them. When they got frustrated, they took to harsh methods of interrogation."

_Harsh methods, _Molly's mind expostulated, _they were tortured. _

Suddenly, a memory accosted her; standing around a gurney not long after Sherlock had returned to the living. He was dictating deductions when Lestrade came, stepped behind Sherlock's back, and called his name jovially. Sherlock had flipped where he stood, grasped the DI's collar with all his might, and almost lifted him off the floor. His arms had shaken, his teeth had bared, his eyes flashed with inhuman cohesion. Only as Greg panicked had Sherlock dropped into reality. Greg had exclaimed multiple obscenities and demanded what had happened. But Sherlock resumed his omnipresent demeanour in an instant. "Just testing your reflexes, Gared." He'd said.

They'd all been fools to miss the signs.

Molly held back noise, whether it was a question, an assurance, or a sob, she wasn't sure.

"After almost a fortnight, Orzala decided to take matters into her own hands. Whilst I slept, I am under the impression she tried to seduce the man guarding us-"

"You're not sure?"

"Not entirely," He omitted, "I never got the chance to know. However, I sensed her considering it in thee days before… And I didn't stop her. Sentiment is a pressure point. If she became their weak spot, perhaps that was our way out."

Molly's dark eyes sought the darkness his focus resided in. She needed to remain within in his solitude.

Sherlock's lips tightened in a despondent grimace, as if physically chastising himself and demanding his memories return to their calculated order.

"I awoke to her screaming. The guard had stabbed her." Silence eclipsed them, "I tried to hold her as much as I restraints allowed, But the wise woman was lost to fear. She begged for me, for her children, for her mother."

_Habibi, please-_

Suddenly, a large palm took her own.

Neither reacted, neither commented.

But as Molly drifted her thumb against his, he found the strength to continue.

"…Eventually, the guard took her away. I heard the men laugh about how _malleable_ she was. I… I don't quite recall what happened after that. There's a whisper of a gunshot and the flames of a fire outside the compound. Maybe that was hours later; I'm not sure."

"…Sherlock…"

"They shot her, then they burned her." His jaw slackened, "Often people suppose that burning the dead is an effective solution-"

"-But Orzala followed Islam." Molly concluded for him, a flicker of anger settling deep within her.

For Orzala, this would have been a grave sin.

The silently thanked the world that she had Sherlock's hand in her own, grounding her.

"In our work, Molly, death is a constant and I am not ignorant to that. But this_ wasn't_ murder… This was a robbery."

For a long moment, no sound was uttered. Beyond the windows, London's nightlife whispered, like cicadas in a deep wood.

"...Thank you for telling me, Sherlock." Molly implored, voice but a rustle of leaves, "I am so, so, sorry."

He remained still for a long time.

But when Molly felt his elegant hand lift from hers and reach around her shoulders, and his lips brushed against her temple, she understood that he was thanking her.

Wordlessly, Molly reached her free hand over and placed itself against his clothed chest.

Beneath her fingertips, a timpani rumbled.

His whole body let out a shudder.

Molly wondered if it was the spirit of Orzala setting him free, after all this time.

She wasn't sure how long it was before she let go. But as she did, bravery became her, and she pressed her lips against his cheek, to cement her silent promise that he wasn't alone anymore.

Long eyelashes fluttered.

And just like that, a sunbeam broke through the storm.

"Hey," Molly began softly, "Do you fancy a cup of tea?"

* * *

If you asked Sherlock Holmes whether telling Molly Orzala's story lessened the ache in his heart, he would have huffed in derision. One, because grief was a neurological activity that didn't impact one's heart function. Two, because nothing would alleviate that ache. It was a malady intertwined with his blood, and he had accepted it a long time ago.

Moreover, his responses were less linear than one would expect.

Telling Molly, surprisingly, had become a sense of askance. With every truth he uttered, the question began to weigh itself on his shoulders. Specks of a firefly's glow evolved into candlelight.

When the words became decipherable, a prickling panic bided at the bottom of the spine, for fear of the sheer loss of self- This _wasn't _rational- This, to him, was mercenaries gathering in dark waters.

_Knowing what you know, do you still desire me? _

As Molly had placed her palm upon his chest, seemingly fixated by the strums of his heart, he had wondered how she would react if he grasped her jaw and kissed her there and then.

He had wanted to.

But understanding Molly Hooper, she wouldn't have reacted well.

Throughout his life, Sherlock had mastered the ability to separate his past and present. Given one chance, he could have shut Orzala out, and brought Molly in tenfold.

But Molly didn't understand that. She would have thought she was a distraction. She would have felt used. And, ultimately, she would have rejected him.

This wasn't the end of the night's work, he rationalised.

Detective and Pathologist had retreated to the kitchen, neither venturing conversation. Only the kitchen lights beamed, a stark white against the dense black of the living room. He brewed ginger tea whilst she sat, thoughts so loud they almost infuriated him.

But he had to focus. It was imperative.

Sherlock Holmes: Detective, Strategist, Agent, became a man, armed solely with his words.

Smoothly, he eased a mug down before her, and took a seat on the stool opposite.

Molly Hooper was exhausted. Her chocolate eyes, usually warm and bright, were laden with an unusual heaviness.

Momentarily, his mind leveraged her exhaustion as a reason for retreat, but _no. _It was now or suffer the _Issue of Molly _longer. To miss details on cases, to be encumbered with unwarranted urges- No. For the function of his thoughts, he had to tell her.

_Into battle._

"Molly, I desire to explain my motivations for kissing you."

"Sherlock," She sighed wearily, "It's okay- I don't expect you to. After everything… I can't drag you through more emotional vivisection. With Baby Watson's birth, and telling me about-" Her word caught, "…I don't expect anything from you tonight."

His face flashed in frustration. _Why be so kind? Why complicate matters? _

With resolution, he pressed on. "Do you recall the night before I died?"

Molly flinched. "Of course, I do."

"Do you recall what you said?"

"…We said a lot of things, Sherlock."

"You told me that whilst the world would grieve me, you would _wait_. …Though I am not one to place importance on sentimental words, I admit those became a mantra of survival during my mission."

"…That someone was waiting for you?"

"No." He omitted firmly, "That_ you_ were."

Sherlock let his words hang, observing every facet of reaction: A sharp breath, the three rapid blinks, slight pressing of fingertips against the table. In silence, she willed him for an explanation. He obliged.

"The decision to utilise your services for my fake suicide was easy. For your access to bodies and death certificates, obviously. But moreover, I knew you wouldn't say no. Because you were infatuated with me."

Her face flushed with hurt. "You manipulated my feelings for you?"

"Yes. But, Molly, understand I had to put weight on your sentiment in that choice. Your care suddenly became a necessary to my survival." The Detective flicked his gaze down to the tea, deducing its temperature, it's cooling rate. It calmed his heartrate.

He continued.

"…You became the idealistic image of everything I left behind, of _home_." He paused, recollected his sensibilities, "It is to be stated that I have desired people during my life. Though my sexuality isn't predetermined by appearances, gender, or other pointless elements that usually guide a person, it is there. The body is effective transport, after all, and sexual biology is part of that. However, it is a pointless vice not worth consideration…" Sherlock's lips tilted in angular distaste, "I thought I desired Orzala, however, I never actioned my wants. I citied her past, faith, and risks to explain it away… But I fear that the answer laid in you."

Molly Hooper stilted in objective shock. Against the table, her fourth left-hand finger twitched.

The Detective drew his hands into a temple. "It is necessary you understand that, until very recently, I ignored the want for you. It is not part of my system to _desire, _any fluctuating thoughts of sentimentality are deleted. My life simply does not accommodate such maladies-"

"What changed?"

Sherlock froze.

Molly's eyes held against his, brown against blue.

"I shot Magnussen." He answered, after a beat, "Though a part of me wished to retreat to the world Orzala and I had walked as one… The thought of leaving London was grave. Thus, Molly Hooper as Home certified again at the forefront of my thoughts. Orzala's memories have trifled my synapses, but the virus that is you- has overridden my cognition."

"I'm a virus."

"A metaphorical one."

Despite everything, suddenly, Molly smirked. "Nothing in your mind is metaphorical, Sherlock."

It took a moment to recalibrate his words. "When returned to Baker Street, you were the sole person I desired the company of. After then, well," Cerulean beams fixed upon her, "You have been subject to our evolution as much as I."

Images swirled: Fireworks through a Victorian window, Molly wrapping a red scarf against his neck, their laughter over the chessboard, bickering in the car, waltzing across Tudor floors, bodies flush against each other in the dark, speaking on German literature, analysing toxicology reports, watching the London Sinfonia, Molly walking away, charging through the Royal Albert Hall, Molly with a gun, lips- _such soft lips_\- against his.

It took a long time, but eventually their thoughts reached an equilibrium.

Gradually, the smallest smile traced Molly's features.

"…Okay."

Sherlock expected Molly to ask questions; She was a scientist, an investigative one at that. He expected her to pry on every strand of his psyche. His thoughts would be examined like a body in her mortuary, and he'd be sacrificed to her whim. It wasn't in her repertoire to merely accept his truth and move on grateful for the knowledge gained.

He shuffled, "Although 'okay' does quantify a satisfactory response, I do desire more audible output from you."

"Sherlock," Molly assured, "I understand."

With a lingering maroon gaze and a soft smile, she grasped her tea and took a long, deep sip.

_The clinical approach. _

Suddenly, Sherlock realised she understood him more than he ever thought possible.

* * *

"Will you sleep?" Molly asked, their empty mugs in the sink.

Sherlock tilted his head to her, brow taught. "Probably, though I should review the case first." He waggled his mobile at her. "Just in _case_ they couldn't cope without me."

"Of course." Molly smirked.

The Detective walked past her into the dark living room and picked up his violin. The air was lighter now. After his admittance of desire, they had spoken of casual things- much to the relief of them both. They talked of the Watsons, the case, some future experiments. However, it soon became apparent that exhaustion was rearing its head. A silent decision was made for Molly to sleep in John's room. It was the sensible thing to do.

Molly chuckled, "You'll keep me up playing that."

He looked confused. "Oh- Yes, of course."

He put it down.

"Right, okay," Molly bobbed on the balls of her feet, "Good night, then."

Sherlock tipped his head formally. "Good night."

For a moment, they hovered.

Neither wanted to depart.

But both knew it was right. It would be unwise to step over boundaries that had already been stretched. The _mature_ thing was to go separate ways, process their unlikely turn of events, and discuss it tomorrow.

Silently, Molly's feet carried her into the dark. Baker Street's Victorian heart eclipsed her.

From the edges of the room, Sherlock Holmes watched her, an inquisitive crow. His body was onyx black in the shadows. Eyes cast upon her in calculated observation, studying every artifice that became her.

Devastatingly slow, he began to move, one foot after another.

Not closer, but _around _the room's perimeter.

Molly's heart began to thud.

He was circumnavigating her solitude, learning it's plain-

Wanton desire pulled within her, the same that had struck her in Hampton Court Palace. Molly remembered the feeling of his frame flush against her own, his hand cradling her jaw, his eyes falling to her lips-

"Molly," Sherlock started lowly, "Aren't you heading up?"

_No _crawled up Molly's throat but refused to fall. She wanted to say farewell with a gesture to communicate _more _than a simple parting. Their orbit had shifted, and somehow, she wanted to mark it.

Resolutely, she braced herself, and took three steadfast paces towards him.

Reverently, she reached out and ghosted her palm against his jaw. It was too soft for the man that owned it, and far too warm for a ghost.

His breath hitched.

Then, finally, mustering the will of a thousand Viennese dancers, she pushed up on her toes, and brushed her lips against his own. The contact scarcely existed, but it communicated the hearts of the world.

Sherlock didn't move.

Desiring more, she sank back onto the balls of her feet.

She turned to-

A hand seized her own.

Pivoted her.

And seized her lips against her own.

The motion was an ambush, quick, fierce, and with a total lack of cohesion-

As soon as it started, he let her go.

Molly gasped.

Sherlock stepped back.

Detective and Pathologist were left duelling one another, scrambling for methodologies in their arsenal, and falling flat.

"…We shouldn't do this." Molly stated, voice wavering.

Sherlock hardened his jaw, but his breath was fast, his eyes wide. "No. Certainly not."

"It's too soon."

"Rather."

Molly scrambled for words, "…This unique situation has to be assessed before continuing."

"Well worded, Doctor Hooper."

"Thank you."

The air hung with tension, flirting with untimely British sensibilities.

"I haven't done this before."

Molly's heart stopped. "What?"

"Do I have to spell it out-"

"You've never…"

"No."

"Ah, er- well, that's fine."

Conversation nosedived.

Sherlock blinked. "I'm versed in other means of intimacy but have withheld from that. Not that I _haven't _had ample opportunity- "

"I'm sure-"

"-And, that's not to say I haven't _nearly _succumbed on multiple occasions. Biology is a formidable mistress."

Molly almost laughed. "So, just to _clarify, _you want to-"

"Yes."

"With me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you're the only person I trust with my body."

Molly took another step back. "…How do you know how I'd treat your body?"

The Detective straightened. Then to her surprise, he visibly softened. His eyes drifted almost endearingly. "I think patching this dead man up so he could remain amongst the living was telling enough."

Memories burst: Molly placing ice against forming bruises, applying antiseptic on his brow, stitching a small lesion on his shoulder blade; All manoeuvres she'd never performed on a dead man before.

He hadn't spoken a word.

"Would you like to, Molly?"

Her nerves leapt out the window and sprinted into London's night.

"…I didn't think _you'd w_ant to."

"Why not?"

"Because tonight you told me about Orzala, and it isn't resolved, and-"

Iritation flashed, "You thought you could dictate my desires?"

"Sherlock-"

"Molly, for all intents and purposes, Orzala died a long time ago. Her ghost haunts me, yes. But _you_ are the woman breaking down the physiological code that has dictated my adult life. You're commandeering a case you can't even observe. I want you. I desire _you." _He pivoted to the wall, "Sentiment is a defect, the body is merely transport- But I can't rid the infuriating sensation."

"What sensation?"

"The sensation that this should have happened a _long _time ago."

Molly was formidable under pressure.

Sherlock should have expected it.

But it happened faster than a flicker.

Molly took a breath, her eyes darkened, and with a professional effectiveness that _stunned_ him, she pressed his lips against hers.

They were gone.

Unspoken question, concern, and rationality vanished into oblivion.

Their solitude became one.

Hands discovered hair, skin, warmth-

Colours flourished against the dark, guiding excited breaths, lingering caresses-

And as Molly was pressed against a wall on the corridor leading to his bedroom with no idea how she got there, _God, _she had to agree with him.

This should have happened a long time ago.

Their journey wasn't perfect, far from it. Their bodies took time to align in every embrace, unused to how they moulded together. They both had to find the spots that teased of pleasure-

As Sherlock's hand ghosted her thigh beneath her dress too gently, she helplessly squealed, body arching away from him-

The Detective leapt away from her, treacherously dishevelled, dumbfounded.

Molly held his eyes, utterly flustered.

Silence.

Then, after a moment too long…

They crumbled into giggles. A fresh, playful sound.

It sounded like Spring.

Still laughing, Sherlock rounded on her again. His hands landed either side of her head, and reverently, he brushed his nose against hers.

Molly couldn't believe this sort of affection could come from Sherlock Holmes.

She'd fantasised about sex with him over the years, more times than she'd admit, and always imagined he'd been driven, domineering, and utterly _impossible. _But it was a romanticised image. In reality, it was easy, natural, and _right. _It set her passion alright like nothing else before. It didn't feel-

"Stop thinking so loudly." Sherlock purred against her pulse.

Reality snapped back to her, and she managed a blushing smile.

Delicately, Sherlock's hands wound behind her neck, finding the zip of her navy dress.

"May I?"

Wordlessly, Molly nodded.

He drew the zip down. Slow- _so slow- _focused on her every reaction. It reminded Molly of when he'd secured her bodice in the palace- _Had he felt my desire? Had he wanted me then? _

Nothing could have prepared her for the ardent want that ached in his eyes as he let the fabric pool on the floor. It _vibrated _on his every artifice.

"…_Molly."_

"Cat got your tongue?" Molly teased gracelessly.

Amusement glimmered at her words, but he didn't speak. Suddenly, he was upon her again. His hands wrapped around her waist and brought his lips to the hollow of her throat.

_Oh- Oh good God- _

For the next few minutes, she was his. His lips ghosted her collar, the small swells of her breasts, the valley between them, the plain of her stomach. He didn't venture further, leaving her vibrating with the wanton need for _more _contact- But then he began murmuring against her skin, gentle words in languages she didn't know. If he was a romanticist, Molly would have proclaimed he was worshipping her. But it was more clinical than that- he, he was _navigating her_, analysing her sensitive points, compiling evidence for future reference.

Vocabulary ran for the hills.

Her head fell back against the wall, and deep down the competitive part of her brain chided him for rendering her beyond her wits. His ego would be saturated. His methodology was infuriating-

Mustering strength, Molly drifted her hands around his face, and drew him up to stand.

He frowned in confusion, but Molly took his hands, and raised a singular brow.

It took a moment, but-

"Yes." He ground, voice devastatingly low.

Onwards they went.

Detective and Pathologist.

Upon entering the orange dusk of his bedroom, Molly Hooper's confidence blossomed.

_It's time to render him speechless._

She pulled him towards the bed, and he was more than content to follow. Their lips waltzed together, full of promise.

Molly worked her agile fingers at his shirt buttons, desperate to free him of the-

"God- Molly-"

She smirked, kissing a small spot of her chest.

"Molly- no, _stop!" _

In an instant, he bolted several steps back.

Molly froze, eyes blown wide, hands still braced in front of her. A bitter apple caught between her teeth.

The Detective didn't look at her, desperately raking his hands through his hair. His shirt hung half-open, his hair wild, his cheeks uncharacteristically flushed. Suddenly, he began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth-

"Hey," Molly started worriedly, "Sherlock- don't-"

He froze.

"I'm sorry."

"…It's okay, don't worry. What's-" The inflection in her voice collapsed.

"I'm not what you're expecting."

Desperate question pulled on Molly's lips, but refused to fall-

"My body, it's- it's suffered- I've been shot, and- Serbia." His mouth snapped shut in visceral distaste.

_Oh God, _Molly gasped internally, _oh my God._

Before her was a man born man out of his time, fashionably antique, with raven hair on porcelain skin. He was magnificent, he was-

_He's human._

_...Oh._

She drew breath delicately, raising her gaze to meet his.

"When I was in school, girls made fun of me because I was too skinny. My breasts were too small, my hips were too narrow. Pair that with a natural flair for academia and being an introvert, and people put you in a certain box. People rarely consider skinny shaming a real thing, but it impacted me… It made me quiet. At university, whenever _confident _Molly appeared, everyone would freak professing it a novelty, and… And I hated it. I was myself, not a novelty, not a woman too skinny or too small. But no one thought it was an issue because being _skinny _and _shy _aren't real issues."

"Molly," Sherlock ground, rigid, "What is your point?"

"The point is I know how it feels to behave like you're fine, when your experiences have_ hurt_ you. I know what it's like to have an adequate body, but not feel comfortable in your own skin."

Sherlock wavered on a single breath. He couldn't fathom how a woman like her- _a medical marvel- _could ever feel insecure.

"I've insulted you before," He admitted gravely, "Not intentionally. It was merely a comment on Western world opinion. But I didn't think-"

"It's fine, Sherlock."

"-But you're _lovely._"

Helplessly, Molly smiled, cheeks flushing like refractions of ocean waves bursting against the shore.

Gently, she wound her hands around her back.

Sherlock's lip parted, caught in a riptide, realising what she was about to-

Silently, Molly unclasped her bra, and let it drop to the floor.

His jaw clenched.

Something truly _new _flittered within his abdomen.

"…I'm not afraid to bare myself to you, Sherlock. Because I know you understand. There is nothing I want to hide from you."

For a long moment, silence reigned. Sherlock's eyes drifted over her small curves teased in amber light. Deduction flared before him, analysing small scars from her childhood, stretch marks ghosting her hips, cellulite dusted amongst smooth terrain. The image of her sat in his window dressed in russet red fleeted past his senses, and suddenly, his cognitive function almost ruptured.

This woman born of science, loyal within her every fibre, gloriously competitive, horrendously sentimental, charmingly awkward, was a diamond.

Molly Hooper was _beautiful._

He was almost blinded by her light.

With a stealthy plea for courage, his hands found the final buttons of his shirt, removing his armour.

The sound of it falling to the floor was deafening.

It was horrendous, the anxiety that swallowed him whole. It was idiotic. The body was _transport. _Yet his logic had usurped into oblivion.

After returning to London, he hadn't shied away from Doctors or even Mycroft's critical gaze.

But _Molly._

Molly wasn't _anyone- _her entire profession was to study inflictions upon the human body. She wouldn't just see scars. She would see _data._ She'd see causes, depths of contusions, the extent of nerve damage-

His heart vivisected his lungs.

Silently, he pivoted on the singular spot.

He was hardly disfigured, but beyond the porcelain statue he knew she had dreamed of. It started with the gunshot wound, healing, but still deep in colour on his chest. It continued with the small lightening contusions within his elbows- His price for Magnussen- and concluded with his back. Long, thin scars; the result of a skilled man with a whip who left neat, precise, contusions. Though his trousers still clung to his hips, they travelled lower, and Molly would know that.

He heard Molly's breath hitch as he turned, and he _hated _it.

When he completed his circle, his synapses were caught in a violent foray or protest. Begging him to run, for drugs, to reject her with words he knew would _hurt-_

Until he looked to her.

Only to find her eyes firmly away from him.

They held on the box that had dictated his life of a dead man. The box that held the last photograph of Orzala. The woman who had borne the same scars upon her back.

You didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes, to see Molly visibly wondering what she was getting into.

A moment stretched, then another-

The detective thought he'd combust from lack of input.

But, eventually, her gaze lifted. A subtle smile drifted upon her, and its power over him was unprecedented.

"C'mere," Molly mumbled softly, extending her arms.

Instantly, Sherlock sought her, desperate for the flush openness of her skin. Their lips met in an instant. The riptides swirled, turned, exploded into glittering refractions around them.

Consent was given, and soon hands wandered, sighs fell, hands grasped sheets, moans escaped, on and on-

If Sherlock was a romanticist, he would have proclaimed that music exploded from the room's furthest corners. That sex with Molly Hooper formed a magnus opus within his soul he would be playing his entire life. But, as a realist, he understood it in finer clarity.

For as they made love, it still wasn't perfect. It wasn't _everything-_ for their relationship was far more than physical. But- _God- _he witnessed its power. Against each other, neither let the other become passive for one moment. Their decade long partnership cemented in the earth's most primal way. They journeyed together into abandon until his mind cried _Molly, Molly, Molly-_

And as they shattered against each other, held deep within London's heart, Sherlock understood the only thing he needed to.

That _this_ was okay.

And that was alright.

* * *

**...And there we have it! Phew!**

**As always, any feedback is welcome.**

**Sherlock's first meeting with Orzala was heavily inspired by "Who is She?" Featured in the Doctor Zhivago Musical composed by Lucy Simon. It is a stunning piece- a hidden musical theatre gem- highly recommended!**

**In the next one, the case continues, decisions are made, and Mycroft pays a visit.**

**Keep safe, see you at the next one!**


	10. The Camden Catacombs

**Hello, dear readers! I truly help you're all keeping well. Thank you so much for the level of responses to the last chapter- The amount reviews exclaiming shock and joy gave me life!**

**The story so far has concluded what I consider Part One, so welcome to Part Two... Huge drama is on the horizon!**

**A Reminder: O'Brien, Takashi and Brenner are arrested for the murders of Luke Yates and Katherine Tonneson. Whilst interviewing soprano Fanya Petrov, a soprano they'd thought they'd saved, she died. Baby Watson has been born, Sherlock told Molly the truth about Orzala... And they've just spent the night together.**

**We pick up this same night, in another area of London.**

**Off we go...**

* * *

_'Live with your century, but do not be its creature' -Friedrich Schiller_

* * *

A raindrop collided against glass.

A silhouette lounged amongst a decoupage of sophistication.

A piece of lemon cake poised proudly upon antique porcelain. The plate had once been owned by the Romanovs- oh, it had taken a trifle of persuasion to ascertain it from a _certain_ diplomat, however, it did so complement his lemon cake.

Mycroft Holmes basked in solitude.

It was past midnight, and the British Government had had a trifling afternoon commandeering discussions with the Finlands, Germany, and, a rarity, Iceland; so much pandering over a trivial matter, like school children fighting over who sat on the bench in assembly.

His thin lips tightened at the thought.

Before him, golden age film Double Indemnity was projected against the black. Figures moved in black and white, illustrious and timeless-

'How could I have known that murder could sometimes smell like honeysuckle?' The man on screen reflected.

_Sounds like one of Sherlock's lines,_ Mycroft considered dryly.

_Ring ring, ring ring-_

The British Government paused the film and raised the wired black telephone from the receiver.

Succinct deductions swept into the air.

"Lestrade," Mycroft interceded as the DI rallied pleasantries, "Do get on with it."

Mycroft Holmes did not have a penchant for physical reaction. If met with a shocking revelation, he rarely did no more than clench a fist, his jaw, his sentiment. As Lestrade recalled his tale- _People murdered by their instruments, Sherlock chasing down murderers in the Royal Albert Hall, a witness murdered being interviewed due to 'The World's Greatest Composer', and, oh- Did you know Baby Watson has been born?-_ a single finger wound itself around the wire, tight.

Oh so politely, he bid goodnight to the Detective Inspector.

This simply would not do.

He'd had Sherlock under supervision, of course. That was a necessity of their shared bloodline. But with world relations teetering on tatters, his attention had been drawn.

_Go to Sherlock tonight. Sort this now._

It was just as the phone was about to hit the receiver, he stopped.

Ware flickered.

_Listen!_

The British Government curled a hand around the armchair. Deft fingers traced across the pins holding the leather until they felt the right one and pressed it.

Ahead, the projected image changed.

Now, he saw his home.

Three security agents stood at their correct watches. Their shadows pooled. Birdlike, like crows-

A flicker in the corner, no-

_Another shadow._

It appeared again. _Closer._

A spidery hand grasped an umbrella at arm's length and drew it to arms.

_… A footstep._

He should have alerted security, but sheer _interest_ halted him. This individual had bypassed the fortified systems- computerised and human- and navigated its scarce blind spots. The conspirator demanded his observational compass before being tossed to the lackeys.

Another flicker.

Another footstep.

The brass door handle turned, softly- _so softly-_

On the British Government's neck, a vein twitched.

* * *

The morning dawned.

The machines of London grunted back to life, turning society in another rotation of its endless cycle.

And amongst it, a Detective sprawled in rare harmonious slumber.

Colours bathed in the recesses of perception: navy blues, blacks, paleness- like porcelain- and the warmest brown. Softly, features emerged: A singular mole, a curve, auburn hair- warmth, _lips upon his-_

A kaleidoscope of sensation streamed.

_Gasps, skin, heat, powerful, glorious, incandescent-_

Sherlock Holmes shot into a seating position, hands braced on the mattress.

_Focus, breathe._

A deep breath summoned his cognition back into focus. Critically, he analysed his current state: naked, twisted in covers, and alone.

_Alone?_

Sunlight streamed through a gap in the curtains, falling in soft yellow upon the spot Molly had laid before.

Inquisitively, his hand traced the fabric.

She'd left an hour ago, she had been careful to not wake him, she'd wanted him to rest.

_I was tumbling, falling, racing towards ecstasy. Heat seized me, she seized me. I was gone- an enraptured wave racing to shore- Molly, Molly-_

_Data- I needed data- __Small hands locked in my curls, lips collided, and I hissed in frustration when she parted them. Falling, yet flying- Molly- Molly-_

_I faltered at the power in her dark eyes, a maestro -Molly- Masculinity soared my every sense, bathing in- Molly-_

_"Sherlock," She cried, capsizing into oblivion._

_Before I knew it, I was falling too._

Reality seized his chest.

He'd had sex with Molly Hooper.

Of course, the act had been pleasurable. Their biology had reacted as he'd expected. With a subtle smirk, he prided himself in retaining an academic focus during the act; power has come from deduction, and he'd utilised it in a manner which had left her completely satiated- Experience be damned.

That is not to say Molly wasn't an equal party. She had, over the years, grown an intrinsic ability to read him better than most people. Within intimacy, she _flourished._

His abdomen rustled with a deep pining.

Throughout his life, he'd dismissed sex for the sake of productivity. Though there had been anomalies, he simply didn't observe basal desires as others did. Partners had always wanted him more than he them. Or, even rarer, other motives guided them: power, or- even worse- love. Without equilibrium, there was no satisfaction. And thus, he'd never ventured further, and his virginity had persisted-

But, Molly was different.

And it had been incredible.

It was remarkable that he wasn't overwhelmed. Sex hadn't shattered his systematic reasoning. Moreover, their intimacy felt-

...It felt_ natural._

Feeling at once horrified and fulfilled at the realisation, he flopped backwards, one arm snaking under the other pillow, brushing paper.

He stirred immediately, lifting it to his scrupulous gaze.

_I know you don't sleep during cases, so thought it best not to bother you whilst you recharged. Gone to recuperate before work later. Will text you if any interesting bodies turn up!_  
_PS – We're okay._

A faint smile curled his lips.

No pressure, no declarations of love, just a discrete acknowledgement that their partnership wasn't at risk. And, for now, that was enough.

Soon, he'd have to fully consider the repercussions of this.

But not now.

For Molly had got one thing wrong.

Once again, she had presumed the case was over... But it had simply played its overture.

With a flourish, he swept from the bed. As he showered, shaved, and dressed in fresh boxers, his mind was teeming with theories.

It was time to call Inspector Lestrade.

It was only as he lifted his dressing gown from its perch he stopped.

On the floor was the box containing his life as a dead man. He remembered it had been left with items still strewn, but now it was perfectly back together.

Apart from Orzala's photograph, laid upon the top.

_"Have you ever loved anyone?"_

_I frowned at such a ludicrous question. Beneath us, a map was stretched. Another strand of Moriarty's web._

_"It is detrimental to reflect on such matters, Habibi-"_

_"You said a name last night, in your sleep."_

_My head swirled to look at her fully, aghast._

_"What did I say?" I demanded viciously- Error- flatlining all previous thought._

_"…You said Molly."_

_A thousand spikes of horror thwarted me._

_I hadn't heard that name spoken from another's lips in two years._

_Registering my reaction, their confidence dissolved into empathy. They placed a hand against their chest, studious and loyal._

_"Don't worry," They assured softly, "It's forgotten."_

_I said nothing._

_Eventually, I retraced my thoughts from-_

_"I think I'm falling in love with you."_

_My eyes shot up- my mind staggered, retracting their every single syllable in shock. Of course, I knew they did- But- Hearing it- I couldn't-_

_"Let's focus," I instructed boldly, ignoring the light fading from emerald irises, "We have a crime ring to disband."_

_"Inshallah," They observed, after a moment._

Cerulean eyes regarded the photograph of Orzala, the only surviving piece of her legacy. Molly had purposefully tidied away the unsavoury memories but saved this one.

She was silently telling him he didn't have to hide Orzala anymore.

The ache of loss blossomed over his chest, yet it didn't hurt. Not like before.

Silently, he took five paces and placed the photograph in his bedside drawer.

"Sherlock! Are you in?"

"John," Sherlock announced, bursting through the door with dressing gown billowing, "Are the labours of fatherhood boring you already?"

The Army Doctor stood by his chair, looking both exhausted and overly glad - _The image of new fatherhood._ "Jesus, mate, secure your dressing gown, will you?"

"You've seen worse."

"Unfortunately-"

"What are you doing here?"

Sherlock itched to work. The temptation of mystery bristled on his skin. And yet, here was John. Social obligations dicated he falsify interest and chat.

"I came to tell Mrs Hudson the good news before going back to the hospital," John explained casually, "And-"

"-Mary told you to check in on me." Sherlock finished, flopping on the settee.

"I- er, no… That was on me."

"Really? How ordinary, John. I didn't realise you were my mother."

"I think Mummy would take that as a compliment, Sherlock. She does so admire the good doctor."

Both men startled.

Mycroft Holmes leered in the doorway.

"Oh, look," Sherlock proclaimed, "It's Mary Poppins."

"Very funny, Sherlock," The British Government muttered, turning to John, "I do believe congratulations are in order-"

"Congratulations?" Sherlock admonished, "Children repulse you."

"And yet they're necessary to the equilibrium of society, brother mine." Mycroft smiled, though it looked more like a simper, "Doctor Watson, do pass on my regards to Mary, and I do hope you find my gift of use."

"Your gift?"

"Ah, yes. I've taken the liberty of upgrading your security. After all, an unsavoury amount of people have called for your wife's head-"

"Okay, alright," Admonished John before he could linger on _that._ "Thank you."

"Sherlock, I have come to discuss-"

And then, Mycroft froze.

Blue eyes snapped up, daring.

Knights gathered at Castle walls, weapons wielded against the oncoming rapture of Mycroft's deduction.

An analytical brow tilted in inspection, twice.

"You engaged in intercourse last night."

Silence.

_"Sherlock."_ Mycroft ground, expectant.

Three seconds passed.

John laughed, anxiously.

Like a seed sprouting from concrete, a very peculiar expression cracked on the finite edges of the face of Sherlock Holmes.

"..._What of it?"_

The shock that passed was eternal.

Until John began to giggle. _The Holmes brothers playing a prank, who would have thought it!_

Sherlock clenched his teeth, honing every silent communication they'd had over the years to one._ Stop laughing, don't give Mycroft leverage, stop._

It took a moment, but-

"W…wait- Hang on," John angled between brothers, "You're being serious?" He swept to Sherlock, "You-"

"My brother had sex," Mycroft expostulated with a tone of prosecution, "With a woman."

"This is, I- I don't understand."

"It's obvious," Mycroft began listing deductions with perfunctory precision, "Two mugs in the sink, violin and bow laid apart, the state of his hair, pulled hamstring, strained glute, three small scratches on his shoulders and," He lifted the umbrella and gestured to his brother's collar, where the tiniest patch of skin puckered red, "That."

_"…Holy hell!"_

"John, do calm down." The Detective retorted, "I've had sex, not a cardiac arrest."

"But… this, this is-"

Mycroft pursed his lips, "Sherlock, it does appear you've rendered the good doctor a vegetable."

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

The British Government's cheek twitched. "Lestrade called me last night to gage my insight into this 'music case'. Though it appears I've come at a _delicate _time-"

"Mycroft-"

Steel eyes shot poisonous arrows. "This is against the agreement, Sherlock. You're here for a reason."

"The agreement is ludicrous."

"No, the agreement saved your life." Mycroft shot back, "You are pardoned and permitted to return to London with one job… To solve_ that."_

The umbrella swept into the air, and jabbed, harshly, against the Miss Me poster on the wall. Sherlock visibly ducked beneath the onslaught.

"And yet, here I find you running after domestic cases and having sex. Am I to assume you've lost your _sanity?_" His voice raised.

"Who was it, Sherlock?" John asked suddenly, drawing both men from their mercenaries. "Last night, you did what- Meet our daughter, leave- Then drop Molly off and pick someone up? …Are you alright?"

Sherlock almost laughed. Fatherhood was already tampering with John's judgement. Surely it was obvious? With a puffed chest and full ego, he went to respond. He wasn't embarrassed- But-

_Molly. He didn't know if she wanted anyone to know._

His mouth snapped shut.

John winced, suddenly concerned for his friend. "…Was it consensual?"

It suddenly hit Sherlock how this looked; weeks after shooting Magnussen, _hours_ after Baby Watson had been born, he'd sought physical intimacy for the first time that John knew of. In John's eyes, concern was completely warranted.

"Please, Doctor Watson. He's practically _glowing."_

Sherlock stood, accusatory gaze arresting his brother. "You don't know who it was either."

"Should I know?"

"It is not like you not to know things."

"Though it may have escaped your attention, I do have other businesses to attend to beyond being your keeper."

"Right, well," John began, joining Sherlock's side confidently, "As long as he's alright, then this is none of our business, Mycroft. He has as much a right to a private life as any of us."

Sherlock blinked, surprised. To John, this was_ Christmas, _and yet he was sidling away his pride to prevent the intellectual brawl carrying on. Oh, it was a lie- John was surely going to spend every waking moment after this encounter pandering for answers- But he understood, right now, that his friend needed protecting. His loyalty was blinding.

Mycroft wasn't deterred. "Sentiment is the demise of intellectual security, of _your_ security. You'd do well to remember that. You_ know_ that."

Mycroft was talking about Orzala; about the day Sherlock clung from the soil and refused to leave Serbia. About the ensuing fights, and the eventual manipulation that led to Sherlock making her Them.

And he was doing it in front of John.

It took all of his energy not to launch into a full-frontal rage.

He saw Mycroft's every particle, every mark and incident, and- _wait-_

"You're hurt."

The tables were turned.

John swore the timbers of Baker Street trembled.

"Hardly," The British Government drawled-

"Someone put a gun against your temple last night." Sherlock continued rapidly. "Not for long, the tension wasn't too hard- either- But you struggled. You-"

"Mandatory offence drill, I'm afraid. A tumultuous endeavour."

"That's absurd."

"No? Quarterly, my security stage a coup to assess my response in emergency situations. It's good to be reminded that one can't always be as secure as they think."

"That's ridiculous."

"And yet, it is fact." Mycroft concluded, "You'd do well to refrain from distraction, considering you are the issue that needs resolution."

"The _issue?"_

Mycroft acquiesced a silent victory, "You need to drop the case."

John frowned, "He solved the case, Mycroft."

"And yet, it isn't over. But Sherlock already knew that, didn't you?"

The Detective prowled to the fireplace. "Why did Lestrade call you, Mycroft?"

"Oh," Mycroft proclaimed, "A striking tragedy, really. The witness taken from the Royal Albert Hall- Fanya Petrov- died from poisoning at Scotland Yard during her interview. Shame, I heard she was fabulous in La Traviata,"

"Jesus," John cursed.

Sherlock's skull jerked.

The British Government continued to explain the events from the previous night. Lestrade had been conducting the witness interview with Fanya Petrov when an officer accidentally fired a blank that had drawn him from the office. Within minutes, Petrov had died from asphyxiation; her body was currently awaiting examination. But, more suspicious than anything else, the cameras had been switched off three seconds before the blank had been fired. With that, and Sargent Moore switching off the voice recorder in a panic the moment the blank was fired- the evidence was lost.

By the end of the explanation, Mycroft stood whilst John and Sherlock poised in their respective seats.

As facts, figures, and theories throttled him, an ache settled over Sherlock's joints.

_You brought Molly back here. You turned your phone off. You had sex. You missed the obvious- Stupid, stupid-_

These criminals were clever. They weren't going to wait whilst he took Molly to bed. He'd been blindsided.

And now, valuable insight was lost.

"I must admit it holds interest, but it isn't why you were pardoned, Sherlock. Though you are one of the finest strategists on the Western Hemisphere, there are people capable of doing the job," Mycroft's lips tightened in a twisted smirk, "If you're too distracted."

Sherlock interlaced his hands, voice molten in pitch, "The Three Crows, Mycroft. Have you ever heard of it?"

"No. I am not familiar."

Sherlock stood, swiped the scores left at Hampton Court Palace and thrust them into his brother's hands. Then, he began to pace the length of the mantle. "Something is stirring the roots of London's soil," Turn, "We have just been witness to the first saplings being sown. This is new." Turn. "My every instinct is shouting that this case, this_ music,_ has meaning."

"What sort of meaning would that be?"

"That is yet to be discovered. Isn't it delightful?"

"Sherlock-"

"John, get your coat," The Detective announced suddenly, "We need to see Lestrade."

The doctor opened his mouth to protest-

Sherlock paused, confused, then- "Oh, right." A hand waved in realisation, "The infant. Fatherhood. Boring domesticity. Right."

Without another word, Sherlock stormed to his room.

A thick silence hung.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft began, deathly low, "Monitor my brother. I believe the Magnussen business has impacted him more than we realise. We need to keep his priorities in order."

"…You're going to search for the woman he slept with the moment you leave, aren't you?"

Mycroft raised a cursory brow, "...Aren't you?"

Knowing silence prevailed.

John's brow dipped, as he softly ventured, "…What really happened to you last night, Mycroft?"

The British Government looked ahead for a long time.

"…Good day, Doctor Watson. And congratulations."

Nothing more was said, and Mycroft Holmes took his leave.

* * *

Crisp January air transformed into thick encompassing heat as Sherlock Holmes descended into Baker Street's Underground station.

Sherlock Holmes despised the tube. An entire civilisation resided within those tunnels. It was overstimulating, leaving him spinning at the force of deductions.

However, the anonymity discovered on this particular morning was more welcome than the life above ground. Amongst busiest tube carriages became the most unique solitude. Though he settled to consult the case, he thought of Molly.

Sex with Molly had happened organically. This trifled him. Sherlock Holmes' interactions were rarely _organic._ During communication, methodologies presented themselves: how to inflect his voice, what gestures to utilise, what pitches. All were calculated to perpetuate distinct reactions. It was the focal area of his proposed sociopathy.

Sex should have been a tool, but it hadn't.

He desired Molly completely. Her intellect, wit, and – now- her intimacy. Those were ingredients of a human's romantic relationship, were they not?

_Romantic relationships, pah!_

Sherlock Holmes and the Romantic Relationship did not exist in the same sphere.

However, a one-sided perspective rarely presented the whole picture.

Molly Hooper loved him. She'd never spoken the words but had never needed to. It was spoken in the way her lips tilted when he made a dark joke, in the way her eyes warmed watching him work, in her care- such unending care- that had led to her killing him to save his life, to raise a gun in magnificent bravery the night before.

And, if for none of that, it was spoken in the way she cherished him in intimacy.

Nothing could have prepared him for that.

For years he'd tried to push her away. It was unhealthy to exist in such unrequited sentiment, and as his friend, he saw it was an objective to resolve.

And, briefly, he thought it had worked. Tom had arrived. _The solution_. But, then, he'd met him- and in an instant, he knew it was doomed to fail.

Tom was not suited for Molly Hooper. He proposed an image of perfect domesticity, but Molly's desires went beyond that. Molly desired to be challenged; To be loved, but not to conform to societies' interpretation of a woman in love. Molly Hooper had entered a profession heralded by men and fought with a feminist determination to earn her place, moved to London from her rural Midlands town alone, and was fierce in the face of brutality. Her heart, truly, was an adventurous force.

For Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes was the ideal partner.

But that was a lie. He wasn't. Their relationship was toxic, even now.

However, Molly was a point of benefit to him; A valuable professional asset. Beneath that, there was the strength she gave him. Without her, he would never have found the strength to speak of Orzala. He knew that.

The more the tube turned and churned, the more uncertainty baited his soul. There was a case to solve, to truly solve, and he couldn't lose himself.

So, he focused. He recalled the events of the night before in the Royal Albert Hall, and previously in Hampton Court Palace and The Old Blue Last. He prepared his artillery of study, and bit back a smirk of preparedness as the tube arrived at Westminster. Striding through the crowds and ascending into the open, he felt revived.

A crow cawed, a rat scuttled, and commuters bustled. The sleuth strode through it all, streamlined with the City's beating heart.

* * *

Cerulean eyes narrowed in pique focus.

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his jaw.

It had been a long morning.

Lestrade and Sherlock were stood in an observation room, watching the CCTV footage from the previous night. He observed his friend scanning every moment and prayed that Sherlock would see answers he couldn't.

_…They were scouting,_ Fanya Petrov explained.

_Scouting?_

_Networking. Simple business. In the performing arts, I call it survival._

Sherlock's brow twitched.

_They have impressive connections in the industry. In return for my singing, they'd pass on my details to the greatest composer on earth-_

The Detective paused the video instantly. His brows pulled together-

"I'm as baffled as you are," Lestrade ventured, "But this suggests that these people-"

"Have a ring leader," The Detective finished, "Of course. This was never a domestic case, Lestrade. This is organised crime."

"You think so-"

"Obviously," Sherlock stated. "What about Seargent Moore? He was with Petrov when she died."

"He gave his statement straight away, but it's pretty incoherent. The lad was in shock." Lestrade slid over a copy of the Sergeant's statement.

The Detective took it briskly.

Lestrade counted the seconds, noting the fractions of change shifting on his companion's face. From alabaster noted a flick of confusion, then compunction, and then outright annoyance.

"We are missing something, Lestrade, something important. Something so obvious it's poisoning our wits."

"What do we do?"

"I need to see O'Brien, Takashi, and Brenner immediately for an interview."

"We tried that." Lestrade sighed, "They did exactly the same thing. They remained mute. No lawyers, no calls… Just silence."

"Speech is merely a cover for those with less trained minds, Lestrade. Music shall still sing from their every breath-"

"You weren't here last night when you had clearance to interrogate, Sherlock-"

"Gared, Mary was crowning, what did you expect-"

"I know, I know, but the Superintendent isn't going to see it that way."

Sherlock exhaled through his nose and levelled Lestrade with a long, biting glare.

After four seconds, the man's entire frame sagged in defeat.

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

For three insipid minds, the three murderers were all horrendously decent liars.

Had it not been for their slow breaths, Sherlock would have supposed them carcasses.

Now, with Evangeline O'Brien- the third suspect- in front of him, his patience was on it's finest tether. It had been hours of work for absolutely nothing.

Sherlock knew Molly would be starting her shift by now. The thought was more distracting than it should have been. Despite their dalliance being a hindrance to the case, he still found himself subject to desire for her company. They had collaborated on this case together from the start, it wasn't a solo enterprise.

He glowered.

"Come on, do something interesting: Wiggle your eyebrows, tell a nursery rhyme, dance a pas de deux-"

Lestrade glared, "Sherlock, she isn't a performing monkey."

"No, she isn't. That's _precisely_ the problem."

The woman twirled a loose blonde lock between two fingers, emotionless.

"The scores left are not instructions, what are they?"

Nothing.

"You were witnessed analysing Petrov with a device in hand, which determined her 'success'. Though it remained on your person, it has been lost. How?"

Nothing.

"What relationship do you have with Lewis Brenner?"

Nothing.

"...Prove your innocence to me."

_Nothing._

The Detective stood stiffly, and swept to the-

"...Horses rehearse rehearsal with a regent rat. The trains are silent, yet we clash. Oh, music of crows arise."

Sherlock span.

Lestrade's brow shot upright.

Evangeline smiled a golden, triumphant grin.

Synapses shot into analysis.

Evangeline had proven herself a worthy adversary. Boring criminals gave answers, worthwhile ones gave the opportunity to_ seek_ them.

* * *

Molly Hooper adored London at night. Away from its centre, dark streets were lit by delicate streetlamps cascading radiant refractions on Edwardian homes. Had it not been for the cars tucked on the curbs, it was passable as a quaint nineteenth-century painting.

It was nearing midnight, and the Pathologist was taking the short walk to her flat from the Underground Station. Her keys were curled in her palm for security, as always, as her mind bubbled with a singular topic- Well, a singular person. All-day she'd tingled in anticipation waiting for Sherlock Holmes to burst through the entrance, demanding body parts and sending her a single glance that acknowledged what had taken place between them. But he hadn't shown, and he hadn't been in touch.

And she wasn't surprised; radio silence was practically an asset of his personality. Just because of their intimacy, she couldn't expect his attention to be swayed.

But, God, their intimacy had derailed her. All-day she'd bathed in those moments, transfixed as he'd alternated between pure business and boyish affection. The former had her at a loss of wits, the latter had her astounded. Molly wondered if anyone, even he, had seen it before.

_Perhaps Orzala had._

The thought stilled her steps, just for a moment.

Orzala and Sherlock's story had hit her hard. Though Molly had known Sherlock had faced tribulations as a dead man, love and loss weren't ones anyone had predicted.

Molly remembered vividly the first day Sherlock asked for her assistance after his return. At the time she'd presumed it a byproduct of the fall out with John. But perhaps_ grief_ had driven him to seek her; Perhaps he felt comforted with a woman by his side- a familiar presence, as it were. In his resurgence back to life, however, he'd been greeted with John engaged to Mary, and Molly herself set to marry; desolate reminders of what opportunities he'd lost the moment Orzala died.

It must have hurt him irretrievably.

Bereavement had changed him, yet there was a peace in knowing now as she did. It was, after all, rare to glimpse into index of what was the novel of Sherlock Holmes.

Orzala was an instrumental part of his story- and, she realised, of _their_ own. Molly wouldn't diminish this going forward. She'd celebrate Orzala's life, in whichever way Sherlock desired.

So lost in her thoughts, she barely registered arriving at her flat. Automatically, she changed the key's hold in her palm and unlocked the door. The desire for a hot shower, food, and sleep consumed her as she slipped off her outer garments and-

The living room was alight in a soft glow.

_Sherlock's here._

He was, unbeknownst to many, a creature of domestic habit.

On the occasions he'd utilised her home as a bolthole over the years, he always lit lamps and not overhead lights after dark. He'd explode in revulsion if she'd switched one on upon entering a room. Molly had joked that electric lights interfered with the antiquity of his manner- That perhaps he was more suited to the glow of oil lamps of centuries past.

Had he come to reject her? Or had he come to take her to bed once more? Both thoughts had her mind tumbling.

Molly decided to investigate.

She found Sherlock Holmes sat on her carpet poised in introspective consultation; his legs were crossed, his hands drawn into an artful temple. This wasn't the first time she'd found him like this- choosing the floor over furniture- especially since his return. Even on New Years night, he'd demanded they play chess on the floor. Now she understood it was a habit he'd picked up in the Middle East- _another sign they'd missed._

An image swept. A bearded man hunched in robes admiring a beautiful Eastern woman repressing an adventurous grin over firelight.

Molly rode the pang of upset and resolved herself once more.

To her delight, Toby had found comfort upon the Detective's lap- and she wasn't sure Sherlock was aware. There was a high possibility that they ventured within the same realm of omniscient thought.

She smiled.

Deciding not to disturb neither Detective nor cat, she went to shower. The least she could do was give them time to consult their respective wisdom in peace.

Later, dressed in grey pyjamas and refreshed, Molly padded back into the living room. An excitable meow caught her ears as Toby emerged. Molly cooed, lifting him into her arms.

"Good evening, Molly."

Eyes raised.

A kaleidoscope of memories passed between hues of blue and brown- passionate and disarming- in a glance.

Molly visibly flinched, flushed, and smiled nervously. "Hi."

For a split second, he appeared to consider his words. "I've served us what was left of the pasta in your fridge. I know you don't eat much after a late shift, and I don't often consume in excess. I've also fed the feline."

"…Thank you."

They hovered, both aware that under normal circumstances he'd never venture through such pleasantries.

"You're not usually comfortable in front of me in your pyjamas."

Molly tested the waters and put Toby on the carpet. "I have no reason to be anymore… There is nothing else to hide."

With that, his lips crinkled playfully- almost shy, and Molly's stomach clenched in relief.

They were okay.

In companionable silence, they went to the kitchen. Molly prepared ginger tea and prompted conversation. When she told him that John, Mary, and Baby were going home the next day, he hadn't known. A quick glance at his phone showed texts from both the Watson's letting him know at varying times.

"A tedious venture," He's scoffed, stabbing his fork into the pasta.

Molly had giggled, but it didn't reach her eyes. For as he'd glanced at the screen, he'd visually tensed. One of their messages had troubled him.

But bravado returned a moment later, and it was forgotten.

For a while, they ate in silence. And that was _different_. The pair had never had difficulty navigating conversation after Molly had grown to relax around him. Their discussions were often the most stimulating ones she had. But now even their known territory felt entirely knew. They were two sailors shipwrecked upon a barren island, grateful for their survival, but desperate to find methodologies to ensure it.

"Mycroft and John visited this morning," Sherlock announced suddenly, almost conversational.

Molly_ balked_ at the sudden domestic conversation.

"Brother mine deduced I'd been subject to intercourse the moment he walked in."

"…How did-"

"It was obvious. Elementary." A senile sneer twisted his lips, "Oh, Mycroft explained every detail to John, of course. From exerted hamstrings to the state of my hair-"

"You've pulled your hamstring?" She couldn't believe her ears.

Sherlock glared, "...And a glute."

For an impossibly long moment, Pathologist and Detective stared at one another.

Then, they broke down in quiet chuckles.

As they came to, the room became lighter. Soft sunlight emerged through clouds, colouring the sands.

"I'm guessing John was shocked."

"Horrified, though that's hardly surprising. Mycroft, however, practically became a pantomime dame in his dramatism." He grinned sardonically.

Molly grinned back, at once nervous and relieved at his clear amusement at the situation. "Did they know it was me?"

"No, however, I have no doubt that Mycroft found out within five minutes of leaving the flat. Chances are he knows I'm here now, too."

"Does that bother you?"

"When your big brother is the literal Big Brother, one must cast a blind eye and assume he knows everything."

Molly giggled.

Sherlock continued, nonplussed, "John, however, is probably more bawled over from this information than his new fatherhood. He swore loyalty to my privacy, but he is a gossip- It won't last long."

"…Are you embarrassed that they know?"

"I thought I would be… But no, I'm not."

Outside, cars drifted through London's night, humming a rural lullaby.

Eventually, Sherlock spoke. His body straightened in ardent professionalism. For them, the most comfortable ground.

"We were wrong."

Molly frowned, sipping her tea. "About what?"

"We made a grave error with the case-"

"Oh, I know." She omitted sombrely, "Fanya Petrov died at Scotland Yard. Her body is awaiting post mortem now. Somehow Takashi or O'Brien must've slipped her slow acting poison at the Royal Albert-"

"No."

Molly straightened. Something worrying had swept across his face.

"I interviewed all three suspects today," He explained, consonants pointed, "All of them were dissociated from the case. The facets that find someone after murder- guilt, adrenaline, triumph… All distinguished.."

"Nothing?"

"-Let me finish," He instructed sternly, "Their silence was choreographed."

"I don't understand-"

"Molly, honestly, the information won't be expelled quicker if you needlessly-"

Molly glared, "Fine- Sorry. Do continue, Mister Holmes."

He almost smiled."Evangeline O'Brien eventually broke dormancy when I asked her to prove her innocence to me."

Molly stopped, baffled. "Innocence? ...Sherlock, three people are dead at their hands. How could they be innocent?"

The Detective's jaw clenched. He was oscillating violently between two podiums: being wrong and not knowing. Both were intolerable.

"On New Years night, though Lewis Brenner assisted the murder of Luke Yates, he claimed he didn't know it would happen. In The Great Hall of Hampton Court, Evangeline and Reo were on the far side of the room when Katherine collapsed. We have no proof that they ever interfered with her or her belongings on that day. And in the Royal Albert Hall, they'd lured Fanya Petrov to sing, yes... But there is no direct evidence of interaction that day, either. Even if the poison Petrov was given was slow-acting, it casts doubt to whether they did it. There's no footage, and no DNA evidence yet discovered. We have to consider the possibility that this is someone else."

Her thoughts tumbled. Since New Year's night, they'd been on a trifling adventure together. The journey had excited her senses, transformed their relationship, and it had been _successful_\- hadn't it?

Molly suddenly felt cold. "What did Evangeline say to you?"

"She spoke a riddle. I've spent the day categorizing the words into cyphers, scanning for patterns or indications of meaning, yet it remains elusive."

"What did she say?"

Sherlock's eyes locked on an imperceptible distance. "...Horses rehearse rehearsal with a regent rat. The trains are silent, yet we clash. Oh, music of crows arise."

But whilst the Detective studied in reverent confusion, the theory did present itself… To Molly Hooper.

"...I know what it is."

Sherlock's entire focus locked onto hers. "You do?"

"It's a location, Sherlock. The Camden Catacombs."

"Camden does not have-"

"No, Sherlock. The Camden Catacombs is a colloquial name for disused Victorian vaults, the 'Rat 'Ole' railway and stables used by the Camden Lock Market in the 1800s. The whole network of tunnels is-"

"Closed to the public due to the risk of flooding from Regents Canal. I'm familiar." Sherlock finished, glittering in ravenous excitement. Suddenly, he leapt upright and grasped Molly's forearms in something near adoration "Oh, this is brilliant! You're brilliant!"

For a split second, Molly thought he would kiss her.

But he let go and stalked into the living room. Molly chased after him. As she rounded the corner he'd already assimilated by in his coat and shoes and was texting-

"What are you doing?"

"Procuring a dingy. The labyrinth is only accessible via water, is it not?" Blue eyes narrowed in annoyance, "What are you doing still in your pyjamas? You made it very clear you don't like to venture out in nightwear and-"

"Sherlock- Slow down. I need to get changed-"

He made a move towards her, "It'll be quicker with two pairs of hands-"

"No," Molly ground, "Wait here."

"Why?"

"Because… You'll distract me."

He frowned, confused. "Molly, you're wasting time. Is this because we had intercourse?"

_"Yes- _No- _Shut up!"_

"You said you had nothing to hide anymore."

Molly laughed in exasperation, "Just… Let me get changed."

"As you wish, Doctor Hooper- Though it is impractical." He smirked.

In a single glance, Molly realised he was_ flirting._

...That was decidedly new.

She heaved a breath, "Don't text for a dingy, we don't need one."

"Of course, we do-"

"I know another way in, though it'll involve breaking and entering-"

He shrugged. Not a problem.

Uncontrollably, her lips twisted in a grin, "Lucky for you, my dad was friends with the punk band The Clash in his twenties before he moved up North… One night in the seventies when they were bladdered they showed him a secret passageway to the labyrinth in their rehearsal studios at Camden Lock- Called Rehearsal Rehearsals."

Sherlock had stilled, so thoroughly, he appeared as a statue. But his eyes rallied something disturbingly fresh- Desire, utter and complete, just for her.

"Your father was a fine man," He ground deeply.

"Glad his youthful piss-ups are worth something," Molly replied cheekily, then turned, and strode as confidently as she could muster, towards her bedroom. "Don't follow me. Time is of the essence, Mr Holmes."

* * *

**Rehearsal Rehearsals, Camden.**

They descended into the night, Detective and Pathologist.

From palace passageways to darkened wings in illustrious theatres, one thing was for certain.

These crows preferred to bask in the dark.

Mycroft's insistence to drop the case was insolent. This case was more present, more fulfilling, and more dangerous than the empty threat left by Moriarty's surviving spiders weeks ago.

"There's nothing here," Molly sussurated, moving amongst abandoned benches and withering boxes, "Dad loved telling this story, Sherlock. He wouldn't have made it up-"

The old rehearsal space aptly named Rehearsal Rehearsals was submerged within Camden's British Rail Yard. Having broken a terribly simple lock, Detective and Pathologist had navigated up several flights of decrepit staircases in the near pitch black. The site was maintained from the outside for cultural purposes- the legacy of The Clash, whoever they were- but the inside had fallen into disrepair.

Arched windows let in dull light, casting elongated shadows on forgotten furniture.

Detective and Pathologist shifted through it all, desperate to spot a sign to the underground complex. Sherlock's mind configurated and configured amongst waves of annoyance-

Until- Ah, his features broke out into a wicked smile, and he bolstered over to a jukebox in front of a long dusted curtain.

"Molly,"

The pathologist edged close to him.

"What is it?"

"The dust, Molly. Look at the dust."

Molly shuffled closer until her small shoulder brushed against his arm. Brown eyes levelled in detailed observation; riveting in their intelligence, _beautiful-_

_Focus._

"The dust is disturbed."

Sherlock stepped aside, and with a theatrical sweep, drew the curtain to the side.

Before them was a hole, darker than London's night.

The Detective instantly procured a torch from an omniscient pocket and passed it to Molly.

"…Do you just carry that around with you?"

Sherlock dipped close to her, and murmured deeply, "Well, one can never know when they'll be exploring catacombs, Doctor Hooper."

They shared a glance, and went into the dark.

* * *

A beam of light permeated black, as bright as the minds who carried.

Sherlock felt every cobble beneath his feet, every wisp of a frozen draft against his cheekbones. He listened; judging depth, space, and height from echoes of their footsteps on old horses trails.

Amongst the ghosts of Victorian London, Sherlock Holmes was a man emboldened.

And though the woman's presence beside him was one of nervousness, Sherlock didn't mind. Her loyalty grounded him.

He found he could become quite used to exploring the dark with Molly Hooper.

"There's so much space down here," Molly whispered, "It's the perfect place to hide a body."

"Planning a murder, Molly?"

"Just compiling it for future reference."

In perfect synchronisation, they grinned, though neither saw it.

Archways extended into the heavens. The labyrinth was a collection of abandoned railway lines, tramlines, and horse stables. Hushed drips of water fell from mildewed walls.

Sherlock Holmes thrived on every sound, on every exhale from Molly's lips beside-

_No. Focus._

Human attraction was intolerable, he thought. He desired her, even now wandering London's underbelly. He was a man enraptured. It was an ungainly prospect, that animalistic want to press her against the wall and-

_Stop!_

Holes of knowledge for this case could have been fulfilled had he not been captivated by her. In situations where lives were at risk unless he moved quickly, distraction could not be warranted.

If he was so swept by desire he couldn't work, their entanglement would have to be terminated.

It wouldn't be preferable to either-

"Sherlock," Molly whispered, voice but a hiss, "Do you see that?"

There was a cerebral glow emendating against far of black.

"Turn off the torch."

"What?"

"Turn off the torch," He repeated firmly, "Don't leave my side. Trust me."

Molly had whispered those words against his lips as they sank into one another- and the orbit of the very earth shifted between them.

Sherlock felt her hesitate, just for a moment. Instinctively, one hand brushed her waist.

It took a horrendous amount of effort not to kiss her there and then.

_Trust me._

They were plunged into darkness.

Sharing breath, they descended in search of light. Inexorable adrenaline lurched, whirling fear and excitement into a riptide. Molly hovered closely, her hand brushing his for security. He didn't stop her.

The light spread until their figures grew long, hollow shadows.

At another intersect of tunnels, a rusted panel stretched across an arch. It's worn colours still showed two bright words- An instruction for the ghosts who resided.

_Emergency Exit._

The still light suddenly began to spin. Shadows suddenly grew, like monsters-

It was a Victorian zoetrope, masquerading against the obsolete. A small projector leant behind it, illuminating the art inside onto the archway's carcass shell.

Beside him, he heard Molly repress a groan of panic.

He stormed towards it, "It's modern. Two years old at most. A fine Victorian replica, but the material is-"

"Sherlock,"

Brown met blue, and then, he_ saw._

The shadows were of crows flying above a crowned silhouette. They swarmed, extending their beaks to the sky.

"The crowned crow," Molly expostulated, "Like the tattoos on the boys, like Reo Takashi's broach-"

The shadows leapt over Sherlock's alabaster features, again, again, _and again-_

"The Greatest Composer on-"

Black.

A yelp.

Black.

Nothing, nothing-

_Black._

The light had vanished.

The cavern opened, obsolete, _black-_

"Molly," Sherlock started, stalking her place- Nothing. "Molly… _Molly?"_

Silence.

In a second, coffin terror gripped Sherlock Holmes.

_Focus- think- Breathe-_ "Molly? Answer me," – _Breathe, focus_\- "Molly!"

He stumbled over cobbles-

"Ooh, look at him dance!"

Chuckles rippled.

Sherlock span.

"So pretty… I bet he makes all the girls and guys swoon!"

"He's making me swoon now-"

"Stop, you're making him uncomfortable-"

Sherlock flipped at every sound, racing towards it. He found nothing- nothing but darkness. "Where's Molly?"

"Oh, you've scared him now!" _To the right._

"I thought he wasn't supposed to care!" _Up ahead-_

"We also thought he was clever, so..."_ Behind you!_

He fell, kneecap landing squarely against an angled stone. A hiss of pain tore from his lips.

_Focus._

Desperately, he braced his hands on uneven rocks, his back heaving with the force of breath. _Don't panic. Gather evidence. Save Molly._

"Takashi, O'Brien, Brenner- Are they innocent?"

The air was too still. _Where was the data? Where was Molly?_

"Of course they are."

"Wasn't that obvious?"

"Oh dear, look, he's so confused."

On his feet, Sherlock falsified venomous confidence, wondering if they could see it at all. "Why would they throw their lives away? Who is worth giving yourself a murder charge?"

More chuckling.

"…So many questions, oh my."

"How do you know they don't work for us?"

Sherlock snorted, fisting his trembling hands. "I know the tones of minions when I hear them."

"…Least he's right about something."

"They help because their music is so beautiful, Mister Holmes,"

"Isn't art worth the finest of sacrifices?"

"No," Sherlock susurrated, spinning again to the source of the sound, "No- Not life. Not human life-" He snapped, "Where is Molly?"

"Get your priorities straight- Is your attention on the case… Or her?"

He fell silent at howls of laughter, reverberating from a catacomb lost to time.

_Breathe, breathe-_

Suddenly, a voice sounded, cerebral and sweet, unlike any he'd heard talking-

"Heiß mich nicht reden," _Do not bid me speak_

The voice was sweet, gilded with gentle vibrato.

"Heiss mich schweigen;" _Bid me be silent_

The Detective's mind stuttered-

"Denn mein Geheimnis ist mir Pflicht;" _For my duty is to keep my secret_

This wasn't- It couldn't-

"Ich möchte dir mein ganzes Innre zeigen," _I long to reveal my whole soul to you_

Alabaster hands locked in black curls.

"Allein das Schicksal will es nicht."_ But fate does not permit it._

Memories flashed.

Lewis Brenner brandishing broken glass in his palm on New Years Night. _"But it wasn't me! It wasn't my fault!"_

Reo and Evangeline cornered by him and Molly. He accused the couple of murder. And they'd smiled: _"He doesn't get it." "He's been confused all evening."_

Suddenly, warmth shrouded his senses, because-_ oh-_ He was holding Molly against the wall in Hampton Court Palace. A vision in russet red. His attention was faltering,_ Stay quiet,_ he urged silently, _stay quiet._

A woman's voice echoed off Tudor walls. Data demanded he look, but his eyes stayed on Molly. When lust became him, then images of Orzala- it was too late. Evangeline O'Brien's lilt voice had vanished.

Except…

This was the _same person_ singing. This wasn't Evangeline O'Brien...

_Who was it in wandering in Hampton Court Palace that night?_

Who had left the music behind?

Was this the greatest composer on earth?

"Who are you?!" He yelled, pivoting rampantly.

The voices laughed, chortled, howled-

Insolence swathed his every sense, his breath, his mind-

_"Da stora toro,_" A melodious voice chimed.

Suddenly he was staring into emerald eyes, blinding beams against the black.

"Focus," Orzala- _not Them_\- told him, "You're losing yourself. Be in the present."

Then, with all her might, she pushed against his shoulders, and he was immersed in reality.

A hand thwarted his shoulder- He stumbled, disorientated- "Where is she?"

Hot breath scorched his neck. "Leave us alone, Mr Holmes… This case is not for you."

In a breath, everything was silent.

"Molly-" He called desperately, _"Please."_

"I'm here."

A torch shot back to life.

Molly stood mere feet away, brown eyes huge blooms of fright.

The next thing Sherlock knew, she was in his arms. Her heat ensheathed him, her scent and love permeating his every cell- and he clung to it.

He kissed her, he cradled her, he cherished her-

And knew there was no coming back from this.

* * *

Chocolate eyes squinted tiredly at the digital clock - 4:49am – and held back a sigh.

It had, truly, been a long night. Molly's limbs ached, her heart ached, but her nerves were wired on rampant adrenaline. She doubted that she'd be able to sleep. And all it took was complete darkness, a hand on her wrist stopping her from using her torch, and a whisper of_ Silence_ against her ear.

Once, Sherlock had told her she mattered most.

Now she realised how far that sentiment ran.

This was beyond their sex, beyond their relationship evolving- This was bone-deep, and absolutely terrifying.

Sherlock hadn't spoken a single word since they'd left.

Now, back in her flat, they sat side by side on the edge of her bed. Both stared at a wallpapered wall of blue hydrangeas against white- yet saw nothing.

Molly knew he'd be analysing the voices they heard- searching the accents, the inflexions, the hints of class and age- anything-

"…What is this, Sherlock?"

Molly was grateful to see him register her words, and move to respond, despite his marble countenance.

Blue eyes narrowed at an unfathomable distance. "Something new."

Whether he was referring to the case, or to them, she wasn't sure.

Anxiously, her fingers wound on her lap.

"…What happens now?"

"I refuse to drop this case." He told her slowly, ignoring her sharp breath of doubt, "The exposition of the symphony has been played, and we must await its development. This person is killing and using willing participants to cover up their tracks… And if it is truly the greatest composer on earth, I cannot wait to bear witness to them. "

"I shall stand by your side, you know that."

His eyes tilted in the affirmative. "You do tend to have a habit of doing so."

There was a tenderness in his words. _A hope._

"...It shouldn't be like this."

"What shouldn't?"

"Whenever I think of the trajectory we have entered, I'm floored at the simplicity of it." His jaw tensed in guarded vulnerability, "…I didn't know intimacy could be so easy."

The words winded her. "...I thought the same."

She heard Sherlock's huff of frustration, and suddenly he was on his feet, pacing with one leg carrying more weight than the other. Toby, who'd been curled up behind them, began sauntering around the Detective's legs. Molly was stunned that they didn't trip over one another.

"The expectations our culture forces on intimate relationships is unattainable," Turn, "I am above this realm of sentiment," Turn, "I have to be. Instinct protests that distance is safer." Turn, "And yet, this desire is consuming. It's dangerous. Far too dangerous." Turn, "Distance would have saved Orzala, and I need to protect you, too-"

He stopped as Molly's hand was placed upon his chest.

A haggard breath slipped through soft lips.

"You're thinking far too much," Molly told him firmly, but gently, "…This- _us_\- is terrifying. There are no methodologies or papers to consult. But," Her eyes flicked downwards at the weight of his gaze on her, "Our loyalty outweighs any intimacy we've shared. If friendship is all you can manage, I will accept it. It is not my place to tie you down."

Sherlock's jaw parted in awe. "…You're not sure if you want this?"

"We're two complicated people, Sherlock. Of course, I'm not."

His shoulders dipped in relief.

Molly's voice grew hushed, "There are no labels. No expectations. Just us, exploring our _zweisamkeit._"

She felt Sherlock smile, his presence nearing. "The select solitude of two people in intimate togetherness."

"…Do you want to stop?"

For a long moment, he appeared to consider it.

"No," He managed, voice deathly low, "I don't."

"Thank God," Molly giggled and drew him towards her, lips meeting in smiles.

Toby the cat scarpered, and would later consider how the two humans could behave more animalistic than he.

* * *

**Well, there we have it... We are on the hunt for one killer, ladies and gentlemen!**

**I absolutely adored writing about the Camden Catacombs. London is an absolute treasure trove. Rehearsal Rehearsals is a real studio once used by The Clash- and inspiration for Molly's Dad's story came from a blog post by The Baker entitled The Subways and Tunnels of Camden Town. The article has photos that guided this. If anyone wants to learn more or be directed to the other sources I used, message me! This complex is one of many lesser-known ones that predate the London Underground.**

**Also, the song you read... heard? Was "Heiss mich Nicht Reden" by Schubert (Translation is taken from Oxford Lieder). A wonderful piece based on text from the play _Wilhelm Meister's Apprentice_ by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (who I quote often at the start of these chapters!).**

**Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Coming up we have a trip to Westminster, a surprise for Mrs Hudson, and a new hit single makes headlines.**

**...See you at the next one!**


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